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[See  p.  232 

"'SCANT   HEED   HAD   WE    OF   THE    I^LEET,  SWEET   HOURS'" 


Iv 


fbelneffe 


BY 


ILLUSTRATED  IN  COLOR  BY 

HOWARD   PYLE 


Ludit  amor  sensus,  oculos  perstringit,  el  aufert 
Libertatem  animt,  ntira  nos  fascinat  arte. 
Credo  altquis  desman  subiens  pracardia.  flammam 
Concitat,  et  raptam  tolltt  de  cardine  mentem  " 


NEW     YORK    AND     LONDON 

HARPER     &      BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS        ::       MCMV 


:C 


Copyright,  1905,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  September,  1905. 


f 


TO 


Sloteri  (Iambi*  (HafoU 

(1809-1889) 


chivalrye, 

Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisye 
And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  mayde, 
He  never  yet  no  vileinye  ne  sayde 
In  al  his  lyf,  unto  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray  par  fit  gentil  knyght" 


£T 


THE     EPISODE     CALLED     ADHELMAR     AT 

PUYSANGE  5 

THE  EPISODE  CALLED  LOVE-LETTERS  OF 

FALSTAFF 47 

THE  EPISODE  CALLED  "SWEET  ADELAIS"  81 
THE  EPISODE  CALLED  IN  NECESSITY'S 

MORTAR  121 

THE  EPISODE  CALLED  THE  CONSPIRACY 

OF  ARNAYE 169 

THE  EPISODE  CALLED  THE  CASTLE  OF 

CONTENT 211 

THE  EPISODE  CALLED  IN  URSULA'S 

GARDEN       .     .     .     ..     .     ..     .     .     255 

ENVOI  .  288 


"'SCANT  HEED   HAD   WE  OF   THE   FLEET, 

SWEET    HOURS'" Frontispiect 

"HE   SANG   FOR    HER    AS   THEY    SAT    IN    THE 

GARDENS" Facing  p. 

-. 

"HE  FOUND  MELITE  ALONE*' " 

"ADHELMAR  CLIMBED  THE  STAIRS  SLOWLY, 
FOR  HE  WAS  GROWING  VERY  FEEBLE 

NOW" " 

CATHERINE  DE  VAUCELLES  IN  HER  GAR- 
DEN   

"'THE  KING  HIMSELF  HAULED  ME  OUT  OF 

MEUNG  GAOL'" 

"VILLON  THE  SINGER  FATE  FASHIONED  TO 

HER  LIKING" 

"  'TWAS  A  STRANGE  TALE  SHE  HAD  ENDED" 
"LADY  ADELIZA  CAME  UPON  THE  BALCONY" 
"  IN  THE  NIGHT"  .  .... 


MY  DEAR  MRS.  GRUNDY, — You  may  have 
observed  that  nowadays  we  rank  the  love- 
story  among  the  comfits  of  literature;  and 
we  do  this  for  the  very  excellent  reason  that 
man  is  a  thinking  animal  by  courtesy  rather 
than  usage. 

Rightly  considered,  the  most  trivial  love- 
affair  is  of  staggering  import.  Who  are 
we  to  question  this,  when  nine-tenths  of  us 
owe  our  existence  to  a  Summer  flirtation? 
And  while  the  workings  of  a  department- 
store,  or  the  garnering  of  the  world's  wheat- 
crop,  or  the  lamentable  inconsistencies  of 
Christianity,  are  doubtless  worthy  of  our 
most  serious  consideration,  you  will  find, 
my  dear  madam,  that  love-affairs,  little 
and  big,  were  shaping  history  and  playing 
spillikins  with  sceptres  long  before  any  of 
these  delectable  matters  were  thought  of. 


Yes,  they  are  worthy  of  consideration; 
but  were  it  not  for  the  kisses  of  remote 
years  and  the  high  gropings  of  hearts  no 
longer  animate,  there  would  be  none  to 
accord  them  this  same  consideration,  and 
a  void  world  would  teeter  about  the  sun, 
silent  and  naked  as  an  orange.  Love  is  an 
illusion,  if  you  will ;  but  always  through  this 
illusion,  alone,  has  the  next  generation 
been  rendered  possible. 

Love,  then,  is  no  trifle.  And  literature, 
mimicking  life  at  a  respectful  distance,  may 
very  reasonably  be  permitted  an  occasional 
reference  to  the  corner  -  stone  of  all  that 
exists.  "A  sweet  little  love-story!"  My 
dear  lady,  there  can  be  no  such  thing. 
Viewed  in  the  light  of  its  consequences, 
any  love-story  is  of  gigantic  signification, 
inasmuch  as  the  most  trivial  mirrors  Nat- 
ure's unending  labor — the  peopling  of  the 
worlds. 

She  is  uninventive,  if  you  will,  this 
Nature,  but  she  is  tireless.  Generation  by 
generation  she  brings  it  about  that  for  a 
period  weak  men  may  stalk  as  demi-gods, 


while  to  every  woman  she  grants  her  hour 
wherein  to  spurn  the  earth,  a  warm,  breath- 
ing angel.  Generation  by  generation  she 
tricks  humanity  that  humanity  may  en- 
dure. 

Here  for  a  little  I  have  followed  her,  the 
arch  -  trickster.  Through  her  monstrous 
tapestry  I  have  traced  out  for  you  the 
windings  of  a  single  thread.  It  is  parti- 
colored, this  thread  —  now  black  for  a 
mourning  sign,  and  now  scarlet  where  blood 
has  stained  it,  and  now  brilliancy  itself, — for 
the  tinsel  of  young  love  (if,  as  wise  men  tell 
us,  it  be  but  tinsel),  at  least  makes  a  pro- 
digiously fine  appearance  until  time  tarnish 
it.  I  entreat  you,  dear  lady,  to  accept  it 
with  assurances  of  my  most  distinguished 
regard. 

The  gift  is  not  a  great  one.  They  are 
only  love-stories,  and  nowadays  nobody 
takes  love  very  seriously. 

And  truly,  my  dear  madam,  I  dare  say 
the  Pompeiians  did  not  take  Vesuvius  very 
seriously ;  it  was  merely  an  eligible  spot  for  a 
fete  champetre.  And  when  gaunt  fishermen 
xi 


ifitratorg 

first  preached  Christ  about  the  highways, 
depend  upon  it,  that  was  not  taken  very 
seriously,  either.  Credat  Judceus;  but  all 


sensible  folk— such  as  you  and  I,  my  dear 
madam — passed  on  with  a  tolerant  shrug, 
knowing 

Their  doctrine  could  be  held  of  no  sane 
man. 


APRIL  14,  1355— OCTOBER  23, 


"  D'aquest  segle  flac,  plen  de  marrimen, 
S'amor  s'en  vai,  son  joi  teinh  mensongier 


/ 

JLsi 


L       1DQS    SOrrlG    TOi4r     y&dTS    d^O j     vrL    Qrt    014fT" 

of-the-way  corner  of  the  library  at  Allonby 
Shaw,  that  I  first  came  upon  "Les  Aven- 
tures  d'Adhelmar  de  Nointel."  The  manu- 
script dates  from  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth 
century  and  is  attributed — though  on  no  very 
conclusive  evidence,  as  I  think, — to  the  facile 
pen  of  Nicolas  de  Caen,  better  known  as  a 
lyric  poet  and  satirist  (circa  1450). 

The  story,  told  in  decasyllabic  couplets,  in- 
terspersed after  a  rather  unusual  fashion  with 
innumerable  lyrics,  is  in  the  main  authentic. 
Sir  Adhelmar  de  Nointel,  born  about  1334, 
was  once  a  real  and  stalwart  personage, 
a  younger  brother  to  that  Henri  de  Nointel, 
the  fighting  Bishop  of  Mantes,  whose  unsa- 
vory part  in  the  murder  of  Jacques  van 
Arteveldt  history  has  recorded  at  length;  and 
it  is  with  his  exploits  that  the  romance  deals 
and  perhaps  a  thought  exaggerates. 
3 


In  any  event  the  following  is,  with  certain 
compressions  and  omissions  that  have  seemed 
desirable,  the  last  episode  of  the  "  Aventures." 
For  it  I  may  claim,  at  least,  the  same  merit 
that  old  Nicolas  does  at  the  very  outset  ;  since 
as  he  veraciously  declares  —  yet  with  a  smack 
of  pride  : 


Cette  bonne  ystoire  n'est  pas  uste 
Ni  gu&re  de  lieux  jadis  trouvee, 
Ni  ecrite  par  clercz  ne  fut  encore 


Jv    v< 

aw 


at 


& 


April-tttagU 

HEN  Adhelmar  had  ended 
the  tale  of  Dame  Venus  and 
the  love  which  she  bore  the 
knight  Tannhauser,  he  put 
away  the  book  and  sighed. 
TheDemoiselleMelite  laugh- 
ed a  little-  -her  laughter  was  high  and  deli- 
cate, with  the  resonance  of  thin  glass — and 
demanded  the  reason  of  his  sudden  grief. 

"I  sigh,"  said  he,  "for  sorrow  that  this 
Dame  Venus  is  dead." 

"  Surely,"  said  she,  wondering  at  his  glum 
face,  "that  is  no  great  matter." 


W/&-1 

WA 

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*4*f. 

ad/ 


"By  Saint  Vulfran,  yes!"  Adhelmar  pro- 
tested; "for  the  same  Lady  Venus  was  the 
fairest  of  women,  as  all  learned  clerks  avow ; 
and  she  is  dead  these  many  years,  and  now 
there  is  no  woman  left  alive  so  beautiful  as 
she — saving  one  alone,  and  she  will  have 
none  of  me.  And  therefore,"  he  added, 
very  slowly.  "  I  sigh  for  desire  of  Dame 
Venus  and  for  envy  of  the  knight  Tann- 
hauser." 

Again  Melite  laughed,  but  she  forbore — 
discreetly  enough— to  question  him  con- 
cerning the  lady  who  was  of  equal  beauty 
with  Dame  Venus. 

It  was  an  April  morning,  and  they  sat  in 
the  hedged  garden  of  Puysange.  Adhel- 
mar read  to  her  of  divers  ancient  queens 
and  of  the  love-business  wherein  each  took 
part — the  histories  of  the  Lady  Heleine  and 
of  her  sweethearting  with  Duke  Paris,  the 
Emperor  of  Troy's  son,  and  of  the  Lady 
Melior  that  loved  Parthenopex  of  Blois, 
and  of  the  Lady  Aude,  for  love  of  whom 
Sieur  Roland  slew  the  pagan  Angoulaffre, 
and  of  the  Lady  Cresseide  that  betrayed 
6 


MF* 


A 

H 


M 


r jR 
lr»T 


AfclyHmar 


love,  and  of  the  Lady  Morgaine  la  Fee, 
whose  Danish  lover  should  yet  come  from 
Avalon  to  save  France  in  her  black  hour 
of  need.  All  these  he  read  aloud,  suavely, 
with  bland  modulations,  for  he  was  a  man 
of  letters,  as  letters  went  in  those  days. 
Originally,  he  had  been  bred  for  the  Church ; 
but  this  avocation  he  had  happily  forsaken 
long  since,  protesting  with  some  show  of 
reason  that  France  at  this  particular  time 
had  a  greater  need  of  spears  than  of  aves. 

For  the  rest,  Sir  Adhelmar  de  Nointel  was 
known  as  a  valiant  knight,  who  had  won 
glory  in  the  wars  with  the  English.  He 
had  lodged  for  a  fortnight  at  Puysange, 
of  which  castle  the  master,  Reinault,  the 
Vicomte  de  Puysange,  was  his  cousin; 
and  on  the  next  day  he  proposed  to  set 
forth  for  Paris,  where  the  French  King — 
Jehan  the  Luckless  —  was  gathering  his 
lieges  about  him  to  withstand  his  kinsman, 
Edward  of  England. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  Adhelmar  was  cousin 

to  Reinault,  and,  in  consequence,  to  Rei- 

nault's  sister,  the  Demoiselle  Melite;   and 

7 


c 


the  latter  he  loved,  at  least,  as  much  as  a 
cousin  should.  That  was  well  known;  and 
Reinault  de  Puysange  had  sworn  very 
heartily  that  it  was  a  great  pity  when  he  had 
affianced  her  to  Hugues  d'Arques.  They 
had  both  loved  her  since  boyhood, — so  far 
their  claims  ran  equally.  But  while  Adhel- 
mar  had  busied  himself  in  the  acquisition  of 
some  scant  fame  and  a  vast  number  of 
scars,  Hugues  had  sensibly  inherited  the 
fief  of  Arques,  a  snug  property  with  fertile 
lands  and  a  stout  fortress.  How,  then, 
should  Reinault  hesitate  between  them  ? 

He  did  not.  For  the  Chateau  d'Arques, 
you  must  understand,  was  builded  in  Lower 
Normandy,  on  the  fringe  of  the  hill-country, 
just  where  the  peninsula  of  Cotentin  juts  out 
into  the  sea ;  Puysange  stood  not  far  north, 
among  the  level  lands  of  Upper  Normandy: 
and  these  two  being  the  strongest  castles 
in  those  parts,  what  more  natural  and  desir- 
able than  that  the  families  should  be  united 
by  marriage?  Reinault  informed  his  sister 
bluntly  of  his  decision;  she  wept  a  little, 
but  did  not  refuse  to  comply. 
8 


Ahljtflmar    at 


So  Adhelmar,  come  again  to  Puysange 
after  five  years'  absence,  found  M  elite 
troth-plighted,  fast  and  safe,  to  Hugues. 
Reinault  told  him.  Adhelmar  grumbled 
and  bit  his  nails  in  a  corner  for  a  time; 
then  laughed  shortly. 

"  I  have  loved  M  elite,"  he  said.  "  It  may 
be  that  I  love  her  still.  Hah,  Saint  Vulfran ! 
why  should  I  not  ?  Why  should  a  man  not 
love  his  cousin  ?" 

Adhelmar  grinned,  while  the  Vicomte 
twitched  his  beard  and  desired  him  at  the 
devil. 

But  he  stuck  fast  at  Puysange,  for  all 
that,  and  he  and  Mdlite  were  much  together. 
Daily  they  made  parties  to  dance,  and  to 
hunt  the  deer,  and  to  fish,  but  most  often 
to  rehearse  songs.  For  Adhelmar  made 
good  songs.  As  old  Nicolas  de  Caen  says 
of  him  earlier  in  the  tale : 


Hardi  estait  et  fier  comme  lions, 
Et  si  jaisait  balades  et  chansons, 
Rondeaulx  et  laiz,  tres  bons  et  pleins  de  grdce, 
Comme  Orpheus,  cet  menestrier  de  Thrace. 


it* 


To-day,  the  Summer  already  stirring  in 
the  womb  of  the  year,  they  sat,  as  I  have 
said,  in  the  hedged  garden;  and  about  them 
the  birds  piped  and  wrangled  over  their 
nest  -  building,  and  daffodils  danced  in 
Spring's  honor  with  lively  saltations,  and 
overhead  the  sky  was  colored  like  a  robin's 
egg.  It  was  very  perilous  weather  for 
young  folk.  By  reason  of  this,  perhaps, 
when  he  had  ended  his  reading,  Adhelmar 
sighed  again,  and  stared  at  his  companion 
with  hungry  eyes,  wherein  desire  strained 
like  a  hound  at  the  leash. 

Said  Melite:  "Was  this  Lady  Venus, 
then,  exceedingly  beautiful?" 

Adhelmar  swore  an  oath  of  sufficient 
magnitude  that  she  was. 

Whereupon  Melite,  twisting  her  fingers 
idly  and  evincing  a  sudden  interest  in  her 
own  feet,  demanded  if  she  were  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  Lady  Ermengarde  of  Arnaye 
or  the  Lady  Ysabeau  of  Brieuc. 

"Holy  Ouen!"  scoffed  Adhelmar;  "the 
ladies  while  well  enough,  I  grant  you,  would 
seem  but  callow  howlets  blinking  about 


W- 


fit 


r/?* 


that  Arabian  Phoenix  that  Plinius  tells  of, 
in  comparison  with  this  Lady  Venus  that 
is  dead!" 

"  But  how,"  asked  Melite,  "was  this  lady 
fashioned  that  you  commend  so  highly? — 
and  how  can  you  know  of  her  beauty  that 
have  never  seen  her?" 

Said  Adhelmar:  "I  have  read  of  her 
fairness  in  the  chronicles  of  Messire  Stace 
of  Thebes,  and  of  Dares,  who  was  her  hus- 
band's bishop.  And  she  was  very  comely, 
neither  too  little  nor  too  big ;  she  was  fairer 
and  whiter  and  more  lovely  than  any  flower 
of  the  lily  or  snow  upon  the  branch,  but  her 
eyebrows  had  the  mischance  of  meeting. 
She  had  wide-open,  beautiful  eyes,  and  her 
wit  was  quick  and  ready.  She  was  graceful 
and  of  demure  countenance.  She  was  well- 
beloved,  and  could  herself  love  well,  but 
her  heart  was  changeable." 

"Cousin  Adhelmar,"  said  she,  flushing 
somewhat,  for  the  portrait  was  like  enough, 
"  I  think  that  you  tell  of  a  woman,  not  of  a 
goddess  of  heathenry." 

"Her    eyes,"    said    Adhelmar,    and    his 


% 


voice  shook,  and  his  hands,  lifting  a  little, 
trembled  with  longing  to  take  her  in  his 
arms, — "her  eyes  were  large  and  very 
bright  and  of  a  color  like  that  of  the  June 
sunlight  falling  upon  deep  waters ;  and  her 
hair  was  of  a  curious  gold  color  like  the 
Fleece  that  the  knight  Jason  sought,  and 
curled  marvellously  about  her  temples. 
For  mouth  she  had  but  a  small  red  wound ; 
and  her  throat  was  a  tower  builded  of 
ivory." 

But  now,  still  staring  at  her  feet  and 
glowing  with  the  even  complexion  of  a 
rose, (though  not  ill-pleased),  the  Demoiselle 
Melite  bade  him  desist  and  make  her  a 
song.  Moreover,  she  added,  untruthfully, 
beauty  was  but  a  fleeting  thing,  and  she 
considered  it  of  little  importance ;  and  then 
she  laughed  again. 

Adhelmar  took  up  the  lute  that  lay 
beside  them  and  fingered  it  for  a  moment, 
as  though  wondering  of  what  he  would  sing. 
Afterward  he  sang  for  her  as  they  sat  in 
the  gardens. 

Sang  Adhelmar: 


r- 


"HE    SANG    FOR    HER    AS    THEY    SAT    IN    THE    GARDENS*' 


at    fug 


is  vain  I  mirror  forth  the  praise 
In  pondered  virelais 

Of  her  that  is  the  lady  of  my  love; 
No  apt  nor  curious  phrases  e'er  may  tell 
The  tender  miracle 

Of  her  white  body  or  the  grace  thereof. 


t>< 


"  The  vext  Italian  artful-artless  strain 
Is  fashioned  all  in  vain: 

Sound  is  but  sound;  and  even  her  name, 

that  is 

To  me  more  glorious  than  the  glow  of  fire 
Or  dawn  or  love's  desire 

Or  song  or  scarlet  or  dim  ambergris, 
Mocks  utterance. 


"7  have  no  heart  to  praise 
The  perfect  carnal  beauty  that  is  hers, 
But  as  those  worshippers 
^     That  bore  rude  offerings  of  honey  and  maize, 

Of  old,  toward  the  stately  ministers 
Of  fabled  deities,  I  have  given  her  these, 
My  faltering  melodies, 

That  are  Love's   lean  and  ragged  mes- 
sengers." 

13 


When  he  had  ended,  Adhelmar  cast  aside 
the  lute  and  groaned,  and  then  caught  both 
her  hands  in  his  and  strained  them  to  his 
lips.  There  needed  no  wizard  to  read  the 
message  in  his  eyes. 

Melite  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Presently, 
"Ah,  cousin,  cousin!"  she  sighed,  "I  cannot 
love  you  as  you  would  have  me  love.  God 
alone  knows  why,  true  heart,  for  I  revere 
you  as  a  strong  man  and  a  proven  knight 
ij  and  a  faithful  lover;  but  I  do  not  love  you. 
There  are  many  women  who  would  love 
you,  Adhelmar,  for  the  world  praises  you, 
and  you  have  done  brave  deeds  and  made 
good  songs  and  have  served  your  King 
potently;  and  yet" — she  drew  her  hands 
away  and  laughed  a  little  wearily — "yet  I, 
poor  maid,  must  needs  love  Hugues,  who 
has  done  nothing.  This  love  is  a  strange, 
unreasoning  thing,  cousin." 

Again  Adhelmar  groaned.  "You  love 
him  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  harsh  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Melite,  very  softly,  and 
afterward  flushed  and  wondered  dimly  if 
she  had  spoken  the  truth.  And  then, 
14 


Is 

wyr~-4L 
r/> 

frCfcy:* 
'  tar*^ 


AMtrlmar    at 

somehow,  her  arms  clasped  about  Adhel- 
mar's  neck,  and  she  kissed  him,  from  pure 
pity,  as  she  told  herself;  for  Halite's  heart 
was  tender,  and  she  could  not  endure  the 
anguish  in  his  face. 

This  was  all  very  well.  But  Hugues 
d'Arques,  coming  suddenly  out  of  a  pleach- 
ed walk,  at  this  juncture,  stumbled  upon 
them  and  found  their  postures  distasteful. 
He  bent  black  brows  upon  the  two. 

"Adhelmar,"  said  he,  at  length,  "this 
world  is  a  small  place." 

Adhelmar  rose  quickly  to  his  feet.  "  In- 
deed," he  assented,  with  a  wried  smile, 
"  I  think  there  is  scarce  room  in  it  for  both 
of  us,  Hugues." 

"That  was  my  meaning,"  said  the  Sieur 
d'Arques. 

"Only,"  Adhelmar  pursued,  somewhat 
wistfully,  "my  sword  just  now,  Hugues,  is 
vowed  to  my  King's  quarrel.  There  are 
some  of  us  who  hope  to  save  France  yet, 
if  our  blood  may  avail.  In  a  year,  God 
willing,  I  shall  come  again  to  Puysange; 
and  till  then  you  must  wait." 


Hugues  conceded  that,  perforce,  he  must 
wait,  since  a  vow  was  sacred ;  and  Adhelmar 
knowing  his  natural  appetite  for  battle  to 
be  lamentably  squeamish,  grinned.  After 
that,  in  a  sick  rage,  he  struck  Hugues  in  the 
face  and  turned  about. 

The  Sieur  d'Arques  rubbed  his  cheek 
ruefully.  Then  he  and  Melite  stood  silent 
for  a  moment  and  heard  Adhelmar  in  the 
court-yard  calling  his  men  to  ride  forth; 
and  Melite  laughed;  and  Hugues  scowled. 


II 

Nirnlaa    aa    (Humta 

(HE  year  passed,  and  Adhel- 
mar  did  not  return;  and 
there  was  much  fighting 
during  that  interval,  and 
Hugues  began  to  think  that 
the  knight  was  slain  and 
would  trouble  him  no  more.  The  reflection 
was  borne  with  equanimity. 

So  Adhelmar  was  half-forgot,  and  the 
Sieur  d'Arques  turned  his  mind  to  other 
matters.  He  was  still  a  bachelor,  for 
Reinault  considered  the  burden  of  the  times 
in  ill-accord  with  the  chinking  of  marriage- 
bells.  They  were  grim  times  for  French- 
men; right  and  left  the  English  pillaged 
and  killed  and  sacked  and  guzzled  and 
drank,  as  if  they  would  never  have  done; 
17 


and  Edward  of  England  began  to  subscribe 
himself  Rex  Francice  with  some  show  of  rea- 


son. 


• 
In  Normandy  men  acted  according  to 

their  natures.  Reinault  swore  lustily  and 
looked  to  his  defences;  and  Hugues,  seeing 
the  English  everywhere  triumphant,  drew 
a  long  face  and  doubted,  when  the  will  of 
God  was  made  thus  apparent,  were  it  the 
part  of  a  Christian  to  withstand  it?  Then 
he  began  to  write  letters,  but  to  whom  no 
man  at  either  Arques  or  Puysange  knew, 
saving  One-eyed  Peire,  who  carried  them. 


*T  was  in  the  dusk  of  a  rain- 
I  sodden  October  day  that 
Adhelmar  rode  to  the  gates  . 
of  Puysange,  with  some 
score  men-at-arms  behind 
him.  They  came  from 
Poictiers,  where  again  the  English  had  con- 
quered, and  Adhelmar  rode  with  difficulty, 
for  in  that  disastrous  business  in  the  field 
of  Maupertuis  he  had  been  run  through  the 
chest,  and  his  wound  was  scarce  healed. 
Nevertheless,  he  came  to  finish  his  debate 
with  the  Sieur  d'Arques,  wound  or  no  wound. 
But  at  Puysange  he  heard  a  strange  tale 
of  Hugues.  Reinault,  whom  he  found  in  a 
fine  rage,  told  him  the  story  as  they  sat  over 
their  supper. 


Sin?    of   ffiatt* 


It  had  happened,  somehow,  (Reinault 
said),  that  the  Marshal  Arnold  d'Andreghen 
— newly  escaped  from  prison  and  with  his 
disposition  unameliorated  by  Lord  Audley's 
gaolership, — had  heard  of  these  letters  that 
Hugues  wrote  so  constantly ;  and  he,  being 
no  scholar,  had  frowned  at  such  doings,  and 
waited  presently  with  a  company  of  horse 
on  the  road  to  Arques.  Into  their  midst,  on 
the  day  before  Adhelmar  came,  rode  Peire, 
the  one-eyed  messenger;  and  it  was  not  an 
unconscionable  while  before  he  was  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  d'Andreghen  was  read- 
ing the  letter  they  had  found  in  his  jerkin. 
"Hang  the  carrier  on  that  oak,"  said  he, 
when  he  had  ended,  "but  leave  that  largest 
branch  yonder  for  the  writer.  For  by  the 
Blood  of  Christ,  our  common  salvation!  I 
will  hang  him  there  to-morrow!" 

So  Peire  swung  in  the  air  ere  long  and 
stuck  out  a  black  tongue  at  the  crows,  who 
cawed  and  waited  for  supper ;  and  presently 
they  feasted  while  d'Andreghen  rode  to 
Arques  carrying  a  rope  for  Hugues. 

For  the  Marshal,  you  must  understand, 


m 


?r^«£J 


/^% 


sr^        7^  «*y  o?ft  ^  j*£~^? 

^^ll^^^fe^^/^^fO-?^ 

bSfe,  *S^m5«3Kf  >^\^ 

^jW*<$s^ 

A&JjHmar   at 


was  a  man  of  sudden  action.  It  was  but 
two  months  before  that  he  had  taken  the 
Comte  de  Harcourt  with  other  gentlemen 
from  the  Dauphin's  own  table  to  behead 
them  that  afternoon  in  a  field  back  of 
Rouen.  It  was  true  they  had  planned  to 
resist  the  gabelle,  the  King's  immemorial 
right  to  impose  a  tax  on  salt;  but  Har- 
court was  Hugues's  cousin,  and  the  Sieur 
d'Arques,  being  somewhat  of  an  epicurean 
disposition,  found  the  dessert  accorded  his 
kinsman  unpalatable. 

It  was  no  great  surprise  to  d'Andreghen, 
then,  to  find  that  the  letter  Hugues  had 
written  was  meant  for  Edward,  the  Black 
Prince  of  England,  now  at  Bordeaux,  where 
he  held  the  French  King,  whom  he  had 
captured  at  Poictiers,  as  a  prisoner ;  for  this 
prince,  though  he  had  no  particular  love  for 
a  rogue,  yet  knew  how  to  make  use  of  one 
when  kingcraft  demanded  it, — and,  as  he 
afterward  made  use  of  Pedro  the  Castilian, 
he  was  now  prepared  to  make  use  of 
Hugues,  who  hung  like  a  ripe  pear  ready 
to  drop  into  his  mouth.  "For,"  as  the 


V    EX 

>  ^r^ 


Sieur  d'Arques  pointed  out  in  his  letter,  "  I 
am  by  nature  inclined  to  favor  you  brave 
English,  and  so,  beyond  doubt,  is  the  good 
God.  And  I  will  deliver  Arques  to  you; 
and  thus  and  thus  you  may  take  Normandy 
and  the  major  portion  of  France;  and  thus 
and  thus  will  I  do,  and  thus  and  thus  must 
you  reward  me." 

Said  d'Andreghen:  "I  will  hang  him  at 
dawn ;  and  thus  and  thus  may  the  devil  do 
with  his  soul!" 

Then  with  his  company  he  rode  to  Arques. 
A  herald  declared  to  the  men  of  that  place 
how  the  matter  stood,  and  bade  Hugues 
come  forth  and  dance  upon  nothing.  The 
Sieur  d'Arques  spat  curses,  like  a  cat  driven 
into  a  corner,  and  wished  to  fight,  but  the 
greater  part  of  his  garrison  were  not  willing 
to  do  so  in  such  a  cause ;  and  so  d'Andreghen 
took  him  shortly  and  carried  him  off. 

In  his  anger  having  sworn  by  the  Blood 
of  Christ  to  hang  him  to  a  certain  tree, 
d'Andreghen  had  no  choice  in  his  calm  but 
to  abide  by  his  oath.  This  day  being  the 
Sabbath,  he  deferred  the  matter;  but  the 


€*S 


fhujsang? 

Marshal  promised  to  see  to  it  that  when 
'^  morning  broke  the  Sieur  d'Arques  should 
dangle  side  by  side  with  his  messenger. 

Thus  far  the  Vicomte  de  Puysange.  He 
concluded  his  narrative  with  a  grim  chuckle. 
"  And  I  think  we  are  very  well  rid  of  him, 
cousin,"  said  he.  "Holy  Maclou!  that  I 
should  have  taken  the  traitor  for  a  true 
man,  though!  He  would  sell  France,  you 
observe,  —  chaffered,  they  tell  me,  like  a 
pedlar  over  the  price  of  Normandy.  Heh, 
the  huckster,  the  triple-damned  Jew!" 

"And  Melite?"  asked  Adhelmar,  after  a 
little. 

Again  Reinault  shrugged.  "  In  the  White 
Turret,"  he  said;  then,  with  a  short  laugh: 
"Oy  Dieus,  yes!  The  girl  has  been  cater- 
wauling for  this  shabby  rogue  all  day.  She 
would  have  me — me,  the  King's  man,  look 
you!  —  save  Hugues  at  the  peril  of  my 
seignory !  And  I  protest  to  you,  by  the  most 
high  and  pious  Saint  Nicolas  the  Confessor," 
Reinault  swore,  "that  sooner  than  see  this 
huckster  go  unpunished,  I  would  lock  Hell's 
gate  on  him  with  my  own  hands!" 
23 


For  a  moment  Adhelmar  stood  with  his 
jaws  puffed  out  as  in  thought,  and  then 
laughed  like  a  wolf.  Afterward  he  went  to 
the  White  Turret,  leaving  Reinault  smiling 
over  his  wine. 


W 
$! 


6rt 


[E  found  Melite  alone.  She 
had  robed  herself  in  black, 
and  had  gathered  her  gold 
hair  about  her  face  like  a 
heavy  veil,  and  sat  weep- 
ing into  it  for  the  plight  of 
Hugues  d'Arques. 

"Melite!" cried  Adhelmar;  "Melite!"  The 
Demoiselle  de  Puysange  rose  with  a  start 
and,  seeing  him  standing  in  the  doorway, 
ran  to  him,  incompetent  little  hands  flut- 
tering before  her  like  frightened  doves. 
She  was  very  tired,  and  the  man  was 
strength  incarnate;  surely  he,  if  any  one, 
could  aid  Hugues  and  bring  him  safe  out 
of  the  grim  Marshal's  claws.  For  the 
moment,  perhaps,  she  had  forgotten  the 
25 


feud  that  existed  between  Adhelmar  and 
the  Sieur  d'Arques;  but  in  any  event,  I  am 
convinced,  she  knew  that  Adhelmar  could 
refuse  her  nothing.  So  she  ran  toward 
him,  her  cheeks  flushing  arbutus-like,  and 
already  smiling  through  her  tears. 

O,  thought  Adhelmar,  were  it  not  very 
easy  to  leave  Hugues  to  the  dog's  death 
he  merits  and  to  take  this  woman  for  my 
own?  For  I  know  that  she  loves  me  a 
little.  And  thinking  of  this,  he  kissed  her, 
quietly,  as  one  might  comfort  a  sobbing 
child;  afterward  he  held  her  in  his  arms 
for  a  moment,  wondering  vaguely  at  the 
soft,  thick  feel  of  her  hair  and  the  keen 
scent  of  it.  Then  he  put  her  from  him 
gently,  and  swore  in  his  soul  that  Hugues 


must  die  that  this  woman  might  be  his  wife. 


"You  will  save  him?"  Melite  asked,  and 
raised  her  face  to  his.  There  was  that  in 
her  eyes  which  caused  Adhelmar  to  muse 
for  a  little  on  the  nature  of  women's  love, 
and,  subsequently,  to  laugh  harshly  and 
give  vehement  utterance  to  an  oath. 

"Yes!"  said  Adhelmar. 
26 


Btfftfr 


'HE    FOUND    MELITE    ALONE 


He  demanded  how  many  of  Hugues's 
men  were  about.  Some  twenty  of  them 
had  come  to  Puysange,  Melite  said,  in  the 
hope  that  Reinault  might  aid  them  to  save 
their  master.  She  protested  that  her  broth- 
er was  a  coward  for  not  doing  so;  but 
Adhelmar,  having  his  own  opinion  on  this 
subject,  and  thinking  in  his  heart  that 
Hugues's  skin  might  easily  be  ripped  off 
him  without  spilling  a  pint  of  honest  blood, 
said,  simply:  "Twenty  and  twenty  is  two- 
score.  It  is  not  a  large  armament,  but  it 
will  serve." 

He  told  her  that  his  plan  was  to  fall  sud- 
denly upon  d'Andreghen  and  his  men  that 
night,  and  in  the  tumult  to  steal  Hugues 
away ;  after  that,  as  Adhelmar  pointed  out, 
he  might  readily  take  ship  for  England, 
and  leave  the  Marshal  to  blaspheme  Fortune 
in  Normandy,  and  the  French  King  to 
gnaw  at  his  chains  in  Bordeaux,  while 
Hugues  toasts  his  shins  in  comfort  at  Lon- 
don. Adhelmar  admitted  that  the  plan 
was  a  mad  one,  but  added,  reasonably 
enough,  that  needs  must  when  the  devil 
27 


drives.  And  so  firm  was  his  confidence,  so 
cheery  his  laugh  —  he  managed  to  laugh 
somehow,  though  it  was  a  stiff  piece  of 
work — that  Melite  began  to  be  comforted 
somewhat,  and  bade  him  go  and  God- 
speed. 

So  then  Adhelmar  left  her.  In  the  main 
hall  he  found  the  Vicomte  still  sitting  over 
his  wine. 

"Cousin,"  said  Adhelmar,  "I  must  ride 
hence  to-night." 

Reinault  stared  at  him  for  a  moment; 
a  mastering  wonder  woke  in  his  face.  "  Ta, 
ta,  ta!"  he  clicked  his  tongue,  very  softly. 
Afterward  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  clutch- 
ed Adhelmar  by  both  arms.  "No,  no!" 
Reinault  cried.  "No,  Adhelmar,  not  that! 
It  is  death,  lad, — sure  death!  It  means 
hanging,  boy!"  the  Vicomte  pleaded,  trem- 
ulously, for,  grim  man  that  he  was,  he 
loved  Adhelmar. 

"That  is  likely  enough,"  Adhelmar  con- 
ceded. 

"They  will  hang  you,"  Reinault  whis- 
pered, in  a  shaking  voice;  "d'Andreghen 
28 


0£& 


and  the  Count  Dauphin  of  Vienne  will  hang 
you  as  blithely  as  they  would  Iscariot." 

"That,  too,"  said  Adhelmar,  "is  likely 
enough,  if  I  remain  in  France." 

"Oy  Dieus!  will  you  flee  to  England, 
then?"  the  Vicomte  scoffed,  bitterly.  " Has 
King  Edward  not  sworn  to  hang  you  these 
eight  years  past?  Was  it  not  you,  then, 
cousin,  who  took  Almerigo  di  Pavia,  that 
Lombard  knave  whom  he  made  governor  of 
Calais, — was  it  not  you,  then,  who  de- 
livered him  to  Geoffrey  de  Chargny,  who 
had  him  broken  on  the  wheel?  Eh,  holy 
Maclou!  you  will  get  small  comfort  of 
Edward!" 

Adhelmar  admitted  that  this  was  true. 
"Still,"  said  he,  "I  must  ride  hence  to- 
night." 

"For  her?"  Reinault  asked,  and  jerked 
his  thumb  upward. 

"Yes,"  said  Adhelmar,— " for  her." 

Reinault  stared  in  his  face  for  a  while. 
"  You  are  a  fool,  Adhelmar,"  said  he,  at  last, 
"but  you  are  a  brave  man.  It  is  a  great 
pity  that  a  good-for-nothing  wench  with  a 
29 


Kf. 


van 


nf  Soti? 

tow-head  should  be  the  death  of  you.  For 
my  part,  I  am  the  King's  vassal ;  I  shall  not 
break  faith  with  him ;  but  you  are  my  guest 
and  my  kinsman.  For  that  reason  I  am 
going  to  bed,  and  I  shall  sleep  very  sound- 
ly. It  is  likely  I  shall  hear  nothing  of  the 
night's  doings, — ohime,  no!  not  if  you 
murder  d'Andreghen  in  the  court-yard!" 
Reinault  ended,  and  smiled,  somewhat 
sadly. 

Afterward  he  took  Adhelmar's  hand  and 
said:  "Farewell,  lord  Adhelmar!  O  true 
knight,  sturdy  and  bold!  terrible  and  merci- 
less toward  your  enemies,  gentle  and  simple 
toward  your  friends,  farewell!"  He  kissed 
Adhelmar  on  either  cheek  and  left  him. 
Men  encountered  death  with  very  little 
ado  in  those  days. 

Then  Adhelmar  rode  off  in  the  rain  with 
his  men.  He  reflected  as  he  went  upon  the 
nature  of  women  and  upon  his  love  for  the 
Demoiselle  de  Puysange ;  and,  to  himself,  he 
swore  gloomily  that  if  she  had  a  mind  to 
Hugues  she  must  have  him,  come  what 
might.  Having  reached  this  conclusion,  he 
3° 


AiljHmar 

wheeled  upon  his  men  and  cursed  them  for 
tavern-idlers  and  laggards  and  flea-hearted 
snails,  and  bade  them  spur. 

Melite,  at  her  window,  heard  them  de- 
part, and  stared  after  them  for  a  while 
with  hand-shadowed  eyes;  presently  the 
beating  of  the  hoofs  died  away,  and  she 
turned  back  into  the  room.  Adhelmar's 
glove,  which  he  had  forgotten  in  his  haste, 
lay  upon  the  floor,  and  Melite  lifted  it  and 
twisted  it  idly  in  her  hands. 

"I  wonder — ?"  said  she. 

Then  she  lighted  four  wax  candles  and  set 
them  before  a  mirror  that  was  in  the  room. 
Melite  stood  among  them  and  looked  into 
the  mirror.  She  seemed  very  tall  and  very 
slender,  and  her  loosened  hair  hung  heavily 
about  her  beautiful  shallow  face  and  fell 
like  a  cloak  around  her  black-robed  body, 
showing  against  the  black  gown  like  melting 
gold;  and  about  her  were  the  tall,  white 
candles  tipped  with  still  flames  of  gold. 
Melite  laughed — her  laughter  was  high  and 
delicate,  with  the  resonance  of  thin  glass, 
— and  raised  her  arms  above  her  head, 


stretching  tensely  like  a  cat  before  a  fire, 
and  laughed  yet  again. 

"After  all,"  said  she,  "I  do  not  won- 
der." 

Melite  sat  before  the  mirror  and  braided 
her  hair,  and  sang  to  herself  in  a  sweet, 
low  voice,  brooding  with  unfathomable  eyes 
upon  her  image  in  the  glass,  while  the  rain 
beat  about  Puysange,  and  Adhelmar  rode 
forth  to  save  Hugues  that  must  else  be 
hanged. 

Sang  M61ite: 

"Rustling  leaves  of  the  willow-tree 
Peering  downward  at  you  and  me, 
And  no  man  else  in  the  world  to  see, 

"Only  the  birds,  whose  dusty  coats 
Show  dark  i'  the  green, — whose  throbbing 

throats 
Turn  joy  to  music  and  love  to  notes. 

"Lean  your  body  against  the  tree, 
Lifting  your  red  lips  up  to  me, 
Melite,  and  kiss,  with  no  man  to  see! 


"  And  let  us  laugh  for  a  little: — Yea, 
Let  love  and  laughter  herald  the  day 
When  laughter  and  love  will  be  put  away, 

"And  you  will  remember  the  willow-tree 

©  r       ' 

And  this  very  hour,  and  remember  me, 
Mtlite, — whose  face  you  will  no  more  see! 


"So  swift,  so  swift  the  glad  time  goes, 
And  Death  and  Eld  with  their  countless  woes 
Draw  near,  and  the  end  thereof  no  man 
knows. 


"Lean  your  body  against  the  tree, 
Lifting  your  red  lips  up  to  me, 
Melite,  and  kiss,  with  no  man  to  see!" 


m 


•\* 


Melite  smiled  as  she  sang;  for  this  was  a 
song  that  Adhelmar  had  made  for  her  at 
Nointel,  before  he  was  a  knight,  when  both 
were  very  young. 


rfs    • 

fe 


°4^ 
P^ 


M 


bT  was  not  long  before  they 
came  upon  d'Andreghen 
and  his  men  camped  about 
a  great  oak,  with  One-eyed 
Peire  swinging  over  their 
heads  like  a  pennon.  A 
shrill  sentinel,  somewhere  in  the  dark, 
demanded  their  business,  but  without  re- 
ceiving any  adequate  answer,  for  at  that 
moment  Adhelmar  gave  the  word  to 
charge. 

Then  it  was  as  if  all  the  devils  in  Pan- 
demonium had  chosen  Normandy  for  their 
playground;  and  what  took  place  in  the 
night  no  man  saw  for  the  darkness,  so  that 
I  cannot  tell  you  of  it.  Let  it  suffice  that 
in  the  end  Adhelmar  rode  away  before 
34 


d'Andreghen  had  rubbed  sleep  well  out  of 
his  eyes;  and  with  him  were  Hugues 
d'Arques  and  some  half  his  men.  The  rest 
were  dead,  and  Adhelmar  himself  was  very 
near  death,  for  he  had  burst  open  his  old 
wound  and  it  was  bleeding  under  his 
armor.  He  said  nothing  of  this. 

"Hugues,"  said  he,  "do  you  and  these 
fellows  ride  to  the  coast;  thence  take  ship 
for  England." 

He  would  have  none  of  Hugues 's  thanks; 
instead,  he  turned  and  left  him  to  whimper 
out  his  gratitude  to  the  skies,  which  spat 
a  warm,  gusty  rain  at  him.  Then  Adhelmar 
rode  again  to  Puysange,  and  as  he  went  he 
sang  softly  to  himself. 

Sang  Adhelmar: 


"D'Andreghen  in  Normandy 
Went  forth  to  slay  mine  enemy; 

But  as  he  went 

Lord  God  for  me  wrought  marvellously 
Wherefore,  I  may  call  and  cry 
That  am  now  about  to  die, 
I  am  content! 

35 


S  •>;•-, 


Domine !     Domine ! 
Gratias  accipe! 
Et  meum  animum 
Recipe  in  Coelum!" 


z\  h®  ( 


'AW 
14 


VI 
u,lmj   Kim?   at 


f  sange,  Adhelmar  climbed 
the  stairs  of  the  White 
^  Turret, — slowly,  for  he  was 
growing  very  feeble  now, 
—  and  so  came  again  to 
Melite  crouching  among  the  burned -out 
candles  in  the  slaty  twilight  of  dawn. 

"He  is  safe,"  said  Adhelmar,  somewhat 
shortly.  He  told  Melite  how  Hugues  was 
rescued  and  shipped  to  England,  and  how, 
if  she  would,  she  might  follow  him  at  dawn 
in  a  fishing-boat.  "For  there  is  likely  to 
be  warm  work  at  Puysange,"  Adhelmar 
said,  grimly,  "when  the  Marshal  comes. 


And  he  will  come.' 

"And  you,  cousin?"  asked  Melite. 
3  37 


Vr, 


Sly*    ffittt?    0f 


"Holy  Ouen!"  said  Adhelmar;  "since  I 
needs  must  die,  I  will  die  in  France,  not  in 
the  cold  land  of  England." 

"Die!"  cried  Melite.  "Are  you  hurt  so 
sorely,  then?" 

He  grinned  like  a  death's-head.  "My 
injuries  are  not  incurable,"  said  he,  "yet 
must  I  die  for  all  that.  The  English  King 
will  hang  me  if  I  go  thither,  as  he  has  sworn 
to  do  these  eight  years,  because  of  that 
matter  of  Almerigo  di  Pavia:  and  if  I  stay 
in  France,  I  must  hang  because  of  this 
night's  work." 

Melite  wept.  "O  God!  O  God!"  she 
quavered,  two  or  three  times,  like  one 
wounded  in  the  throat.  "And  you  have 
done  this  for  me!  Is  there  no  way  to  save 
you,  Adhelmar?"  she  pleaded,  with  wide, 
frightened  eyes  that  were  like  a  child's. 

"None,"  said  Adhelmar.  He  took  both 
her  hands  in  his,  very  tenderly.  "Ah,  my 
sweet,"  said  he,  "must  I  whose  grave  is  al- 
ready digged  waste  breath  upon  this  idle 
talk  of  kingdoms  and  the  squabbling  men 
who  rule  them  ?  I  have  but  a  brief  while 
38 


ADHELMAR     CLIMBED    THE     STAIRS     SLOWLY,    FOR    HE    WAS    GROWING    VERY    FEEBLE 

NOW" 


to  live,  and  I  would  fain  forget  that  there 
is  aught  else  in  the  world  save  you  and  that 
I  love  you.  Do  not  weep,  Melite !  In  a  lit- 
tle time  you  will  forget  me  and  be  happy 
with  this  Hugues  whom  you  love ;  and  I  ? — 
ah,  my  sweet,  I  think  that  even  in  my  grave 
I  shall  dream  of  you  and  of  your  great  beau- 
ty and  of  the  exceeding  love  that  I  bore  you 
in  the  old  days." 

"Ah,   no,   not   that!"   Melite   cried.     "I 
shall  not  forget,  O  true  and  faithful  lover! 
And,   indeed,   indeed,   Adhelmar,    I   would 
£0    give  my  life  right  willingly  that  yours  might 

be  saved !"  She  had  forgotten  Hugues  now.  te  *? 
Her  heart  hungered  as  she  thought  of 
Adhelmar  who  must  die  a  shameful  death 
for  her  sake  and  of  the  love  which  she 
had  cast  away.  The  Sieur  d'Arques's 
affection  showed  somewhat  tawdry  be- 
side it. 

" Sweet,"  said  he,  "do  I  not  know  you  to  { 
the  marrow?  You  will  forget  me  utterly, 
for  your  heart  is  very  changeable.  Ah, 
Mother  of  God!"  Adhelmar  cried,  with  a 
quick  lift  of  speech;  "  I  am  afraid  to  die,  for  *-. 


W< 


t 


the  harsh  dust  will  shut  out  the  glory  of 
your  face,  and  you  will  forget!" 

"No;  ah,  no!"  Melite  whispered,  and 
drew  near  to  him.  Adhelmar  smiled,  a 
little  wistfully,  for  he  did  not  believe  that 
she  spoke  the  truth ;  but  it  was  good  to  feel 
her  body 'close  to  his,  even  though  he  was 
dying,  and  he  was  content. 

But  by  this  the  dawn  had  come  com- 
pletely, flooding  the  room  with  its  first  thin 
radiance,  and  Melite  saw  the  pallor  of  his 
face  and  so  knew  that  he  was  wounded. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  said  Adhelmar,  when  she 
had  questioned  him,  "  for  my  breast  is  quite 
cloven  through."  And  when  she  presently 
disarmed  him,  Melite  found  a  great  cut  in 
his  chest  which  had  bled  so  much  that  it 
was  apparent  he  must  die,  whether  d'An- 
dreghen  and  Edward  of  England  would  or 
no. 

Melite  wept  again  and  cried  •  "  Why  had 
you  not  told  me  of  this?" 

"To  have  you  heal  me,  perchance?"  said 
Adhelmar.  "Ah,  love,  is  hanging,  then,  so 
sweet  a  death  that  I  should  choose  it, 


ftcirv. 


rather  than  to  die  very  peacefully  in  your 
arms  ?  Indeed,  I  would  not  live  if  I  might ; 
for  I  have  proven  traitor  to  my  King,  and 
it  is  right  that  traitors  should  die ;  and  chief 
of  all,  I  know  that  life  can  bring  me  naught 
more  desirable  than  I  have  known  this 
night.  What  need,  then,  to  live?" 

Melite  bent  over  him;  for  as  he  spoke  he 
had  lain  back  in  a  great  carven  chair  set 
by  the  window.  She  was  past  speech  by 
this.  But  now,  for  a  moment,  her  lips 
clung  to  his,  and  her  warm  tears  fell  upon 
his  face.  What  better  death  for  a  lover? 
thought  Adhelmar. 

Yet  he  murmured  somewhat.  "Pity, 
always  pity!"  he  said,  very  wearily.  "I 
shall  never  win  aught  else  of  you,  Melite. 
For  before  this  you  have  kissed  me,  pitying 
me  because  you  could  not  love  me.  And 
you  have  kissed  me  now,  pitying  me  because 
I  may  not  live." 

But  Melite,  clasping  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  whispered  into  his  ear  the  mean- 
ing of  this  last  kiss,  and  at  the  honeyed 
sound  of  it  his  strength  came  back  for  a 
41 


moment,  and  he  strove  to  rise.  The  level 
sunlight  smote  full  upon  his  face,  which  was 
very  glad. 

"God,  God!"  cried  Adhelmar,  and  spread 
out  his  arms  toward  the  dear,  familiar  world 
that  was  slowly  taking  form  beneath  them, 
— a  world  now  infinitely  dear  to  him ;  "ah, 
my  God,  have  pity  and  let  me  live  a  little 
longer!" 

As  Melite,  half  frightened,  drew,  back 
from  him,  he  crept  out  of  his  chair  and  fell 
prone  at  her  feet.  Afterward  his  hands 
stretched  forward  toward  her,  clutching, 
and  then  trembled  and  were  still. 

Melite  stood  looking  downward,  wonder- 
ing vaguely  if  she  would  ever  know  either 
joy  or  sorrow  again.  So  the  new  day 
found  them. 


MARCH   2,   1414 

fv 
"  Jack,  how  agrees  the  devil  and  thee  about  thy  soul, 

that  thou  soldest  him  for  a  cup  of  Madeira  and  a  cold 
capon's  leg?" 


'N  the  chapel  at  Puysange  you  may 
still  see  the  tomb  of  Adhelmar;  but  Me- 
lite's  bones  lie  otherwhere.  "Her  heart 
was  changeable,"  as  the  old  chronicler  says, 
justly  enough;  and  so  in  due  time  it  was  com- 
forted. 

For  Hugues  d'Arques — or  Hugh  Darke, 
as  his  name  was  Anglicized — presently  stood 
high  in  the  favor  of  King  Edward.  A  fief 
was  granted  him  in  Norfolk,  where  Hugues 
shortly  built  for  himself  a  residence  at 
Yaxham  and  began  to  look  about  for  a  wife; 
and  it  was  not  long  before  he  found  one. 

This  was  at  Bretigny  when,  in  1360,  the 
Great  Peace  was  signed  between  France  and 
England,  and  Hugues,  as  one  of  the  English 
embassy,  came  face  to  face  with  Reinault  and 
Melite.  History  does  not  detail  the  meeting  ; 
but,  inasmuch  as  the  Sieur  d'Arques  and 
Melite  de  Puysange  were  married  at  Rouen 

\s 


the  following  Autumn,  doubtless  it  passed 
off  pleasantly  enough. 

Melite  died  three  years  later,  having  borne 
her  husband  two  children :  a  daughter,  Sylvia, 
born  in  1361,  who  married  Sir  Robert  Vernon 
of  Winstead-in-Norfolk ;  and  a  son,  Hugh, 
born  in  1363,  who  succeeded  to  his  father's 
estate  of  Yaxham  in  1387,  in  which  year 
Hugues  fell  at  the  battle  of  Radcot  Bridge, 
fighting  in  behalf  of  the  ill-fated  Richard  of 
Bordeaux. 

Now  we  turn  to  certain  happenings  in 
Eastcheap  at  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern. 


i 


iHERE  was  a  sound  of 
scuffling  within  as  Sir 
John  Falstaff,  very  old 
now  and  very  shaky  after 
a  night  of  hard  drinking, 
fumbled  for  a  moment  at 
the  door  of  the  Angel  room.  Presently  he 
came  into  the  apartment,  singing,  as  was 
often  his  custom  when  alone,  and  found 
Bardolph  in  one  corner  busily  employed 
in  sorting  garments  from  a  clothes-chest, 
while  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room  Mis- 
tress Quickly  demurely  stirred  the  fire; 
47 


which  winked  at  the  old  knight  rather 
knowingly. 

"  Then  came  the  bold  Sir  Caradoc,"  caroll- 
ed Sir  John.  "Ah,  mistress,  what  news? — 
And  eke  Sir  Pellinore. — Did  I  rage  last 
night,  Bardolph  ?  Was  I  a  very  Bedlamite  ?" 

"As  mine  own  bruises  can  testify," 
Bardolph  assented.  "Had  each  one  of 
them  a  tongue,  they  might  raise  a  clamor 
whereby  Babel  were  as  an  heir  weeping  for 
his  rich  uncle's  death;  their  testimony 
would  qualify  you  for  any  mad -house  in 
England.  And  if  their  evidence  go  against 
the  doctor's  stomach,  the  watchman  at  the 
corner  hath  three  teeth — or,  rather,  had 
until  you  knocked  them  out  last  night — 
that  will,  right  willingly,  aid  him  to  digest 
it." 

"Three,  say  you?"  asked  the  knight, 
sinking  into  his  great  chair  set  ready  for 
him  beside  the  fire.  "  I  would  have  my 
valor  in  all  men's  mouths,  but  not  in  this 
fashion ;  'tis  too  biting  a  jest.  I  am  glad  it 
was  no  worse;  I  have  a  tender  conscience, 
and  that  mad  fellow  of  the  north,  Hotspur, 


$* 


sits  heavily  upon  it;  thus,  Percy  being 
slain,  is  per  se  avenged;  a  plague  on  him! 
We  fought  a  long  hour  by  Shrewsbury 
clock,  but  I  gave  no  quarter,  I  promise  you ; 
though,  i'  faith,  the  jest  is  ill-timed.  Three, 
say  you?  I  would  to  God  my  name  were 
not  so  terrible  to  the  enemy  as  it  is;  I 
would  I  had  'bated  my  natural  inclination 
somewhat,  and  slain  less  tall  fellows  by  some 
threescore.  I  doubt  Agamemnon  slept  not 
well  o'  nights.  Three,  say  you?  Give  the 
fellow  a  crown  apiece  for  his  mouldy  teeth, 
an  thou  hast  them;  an  thou  hast  not,  bid 
him  eschew  drunkenness,  whereby  his  mis- 
fortune hath  befallen  him." 

"Indeed,  sir,"  began  Bardolph,  "I 
doubt—" 

"Doubt  not,  sirrah!"  cried  Sir  John, 
testily;  and  continued,  in  a  virtuous  man- 
ner: "Was  not  the  apostle  reproved  for 
that  same  sin  ?  Thou  art  a  very  Didymus, 
Bardolph ;  —  a  very  incredulous  paynim, 
a  most  unspeculative  rogue!  Have  I  car- 
racks  trading  i'  the  Indies  ?  Have  I  robbed 
the  exchequer  of  late?  Have  I  the  Gold- 
49 


\ 

>> 


en  Fleece  for  a  cloak?  Sooth,  'tis  paltry 
gimlet;  and  that  augurs  not  well  for  his 
suit.  Does  he  take  me  for  a  raven  to  feed  /^ 
him  in  the  wilderness?  Tell  him  there  are 
no  such  ravens  hereabout ;  else  had  I  raven- 
ously limed  the  house-tops  and  set  springes 
in  the  gutters.  Inform  him,  knave,  that 
my  purse  is  no  better  lined  than  his  own 
broken  costard;  'tis  void  as  a  beggar's 
protestations,  or  a  butcher's  stall  in  Lent; 

IA  i.       I 

light  as  a  famished  gnat,  or  the  sighing  of 
a  new-made  widower;  more  empty  than  a 
last  year's  bird-nest,  than  a  madman's  eye, 
or,  in  fine,  than  the  friendship  of  a  king."  • 
"  But  you  have  wealthy  friends,  Sir  John," 
suggested  the  hostess  of  the  Boar's  Head 

tf  "sa^T 

Tavern,  who  had  been  waiting  with  con- 
siderable impatience  for  an  opportunity  to 
join  in  the  conversation.  "Yes,  I  warrant 
you,  Sir  John.  Sir  John,  you  have  a  many 
wealthy  friends;  you  cannot  deny  that, 
Sir  John." 

"Friends,    dame?"    asked    the    knight, 
and  cowered  closer  to  the  fire,  as  though  he  ,'. 
were  a  little  cold.     "  I  have  no  friends  since 


•^y%, 


Hal  is  King.  I  had,  I  grant  you,  a  few 
score  of  acquaintances  whom  I  taught  to 
play  at  dice;  paltry  young  blades  of  the 
City,  very  unfledged  juvenals!  Setting  my 
knighthood  and  my  valor  aside,  if  I  did 
swear  friendship  with  these,  I  did  swear 
to  a  lie.  O,  'tis  a  most  censorious  world: 
look  you,  even  these  sprouting  aldermen, 
these  foul  bacon-fed  rogues,  have  eschewed 
my  friendship  of  late;  my  reputation  hath 
grown  somewhat  more  murky  than  Erebus ; 
no  matter!  I  walk  alone,  as  one  that  hath 
the  pestilence.  No  matter!  but  I  grow  old; 
I  am  not  in  the  vaward  of  my  youth, 
mistress." 

He  nodded  his  head  with  extreme  grav- 
ity; then  reached  for  a  cup  of  sack  that 
Bardolph  held  at  his  elbow. 

"  Indeed,  I  know  not  what  your  worship 
will  do,"  said  Mistress  Quickly,  rather 
sadly. 

"Faith!"  answered  Sir  John,  finishing 
the  sack  and  grinning  in  a  somewhat 
ghastly  fashion ;  "  unless  the  Providence  that 
watches  over  the  fall  of  a  sparrow  hath  an 


eye  to  the  career  of  Sir  John  Falstaff, 
Knight,  and  so  comes  to  my  aid  shortly,  I 
must  needs  convert  my  last  doublet  into  a 
mask,  and  turn  highwayman  in  my  shirt. 
I  will  take  purses  yet,  i'  faith,  as  I  did  at 
Gadshill,  where  that  scurvy  Poins,  and  he 
that  is  now  King,  and  some  twoscore  other 
knaves,  did  rob  me;  yet  I  peppered  some 
of  them,  I  warrant  you!" 

"You  must  be  rid  of  me,  then,  master," 
Bardolph  interpolated.  "  I  for  one  have 
no  need  of  a  hempen  collar." 

"Ah,  well!"  said  the  knight,  stretching 
himself  in  his  chair  as  the  warmth  of  the 
liquor  coursed  through  his  inert  blood ;  "  I, 
too,  would  be  loth  to  break  the  gallows' 
back!  For  fear  of  halters,  we  must  alter 
our  way  of  living;  we  must  live  close, 
Bardolph,  till  the  wars  make  us  either 
Croesuses  or  food  for  crows.  And  if  Hal 
but  hold  to  his  bias,  there'll  be  wars;  I'll 
eat  a  piece  of  my  sword,  an  he  have  not 
need  of  it  shortly.  Ah,  go  thy  ways,  old 
Jack;  there  live  not  three  good  men  un- 
hanged in  England,  and  one  of  them  is  fat 
52 


nf  3Ulataff 


and  grows  old.  We  must  live  close,  Bar- 
dolph;  we  must  forswear  drinking  and 
wenching!  There's  lime  in  this  sack,  you 
rogue;  give  me  another  cup. 

"  I  pray  you,  hostess,"  he  continued,  "re- 
member that  Doll  Tearsheet  sups  with  me 
to-night;  have  a  capon  of  the  best,  and  be 
not  sparing  of  the  wine.  I'll  repay  you, 
i'  faith,  when  we  young  fellows  return  from 
France,  all  laden  with  rings  and  brooches 
and  such  trumperies  like  your  Norfolkshire 
pedlars  at  Christmas-tide.  We  will  sack 
a  town  for  you,  and  bring  you  back  the 
Lord  Mayor's  beard  to  stuff  you  a  cushion ; 
the  Dauphin  shall  be  a  tapster  yet ;  we  will 
walk  on  lilies,  I  warrant  you." 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mistress  Quickly,  in 
perfect  earnest,  "your  worship  is  as  wel- 
come to  my  pantry  as  the  mice — a  pox  on 
'em! — think  themselves;  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  Ah,  well,  old  Puss  is  dead ;  I  had 
her  of  Goodman  Quickly  these  ten  years 
since; — but  I  had  thought  you  looked  for 
the  lady  who  was  here  but  now; — she  was 
a  roaring  lion  among  the  mice." 
4  53 


•&. 


"What  lady?"  cried  Sir  John,  with  great 
animation.  "Was  it  Flint  the  mercer's 
wife,  think  you  ?  Ah,  she  hath  a  liberal  dis- 
position, and  will,  without  the  aid  of  Prince 
Houssain's  carpet  or  the  horse  of  Cambus- 
can,  transfer  the  golden  shining  pieces  from 
her  husband's  coffers  to  mine." 

"No  mercer's  wife,  I  think,"  Mistress 
Quickly  answered,  after  consideration.  "  She 
came  in  her  coach  and  smacked  of  gen- 
tility;— Master  Dumbleton's  father  was  a 
mercer ;  but  he  had  red  hair ; — she  is  old ; — 
and  I  could  never  abide  red  hair." 

"No  matter!"  cried  the  knight.  "I  can 
love  her,  be  she  a  very  Witch  of  Endor. 
Observe,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  proper 
man,  Bardolph!  She  hath  marked  me;— 
in  public,  perhaps;  on  the  street,  it  may 
be; — and  then,  I  warrant  you,  made  such 
eyes!  and  sighed  such  sighs!  and  lain  awake 
o'  nights,  thinking  of  a  pleasing  portly 
man,  whom,  were  my  besetting  sin  not 
modesty,  I  might  name; — and  I,  all  this 
while,  not  knowing.  Fetch  me  my  Book 
of  Riddles  and  my  Sonnets,  that  I  may 
54 


SB? 


Sffi 


of  SUlsiaff 


speak  smoothly.  Why  was  my  beard  not 
combed  this  morning?  No  matter,  'twill 
serve.  Have  I  no  better  cloak  than  this?" 
Sir  John  was  in  a  tremendous  bustle,  all 
a-beam  with  pleasurable  anticipation. 

But  presently  Mistress  Quickly,  who  had 
been  looking  out  of  the  window,  said: 
"  By'r  lady,  your  worship  must  begin  with 
unwashed  hands,  for  the  coach  is  even  now 
at  the  door." 

"Avaunt,  minions!"  cried  the  knight. 
"Avaunt!  Conduct  the  lady  hither,  host- 
ess; Bardolph,  another  cup  of  sack.  We 
will  ruffle  it,  lad,  and  go  to  France  all  gold, 
like  Midas!  Are  mine  eyes  too  red?  I 
must  look  sad,  you  know,  and  sigh  very 
pitifully.  Ah,  we  will  ruffle  it!  Another 
cup  of  sack,  Bardolph;  —  I  am  a  rogue  if  I 
have  drunk  to-day.  And  avaunt!  vanish! 
for  the  lady  comes." 

He  threw  himself  into  a  gallant  attitude, 
suggestive  of  one  suddenly  palsied,  and  with 
the  mien  of  a  turkey-cock  strutted  toward 
the  door  to  greet  his  unknown  visitor. 


tturo 


HE  was  by  no  means  what 
he  had  expected  in  her  per- 
sonal appearance;  at  first 
sight  Sir  John  estimated 
her  age  as  a  trifle  upon  the 
staider  side  of  sixty.  But 
to  her  time  had  shown  consideration,  even 
kindliness,  as  though  he  touched  her  less 
with  intent  to  mar  than  to  caress;  her 
form  was  still  unbent,  and  her  countenance, 
bloodless  and  deep-furrowed,  bore  the  traces 
of  great  beauty;  and,  whatever  the  nature 
of  her  errand,  the  woman  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  was  unquestionably  a  person  of 
breeding. 

Sir  John  advanced  toward  her  with  such 
56 


AV 

fi\ 


\T 


grace  as  he  might  muster ;  to  speak  plainly, 
his  gout,  coupled  with  his  excessive  bulk, 
did  not  permit  an  overpowering  amount. 

"See,  from  the  glowing  East,  Aurora 
comes,"  he  chirped.  "Madam,  permit  me 
to  welcome  you  to  my  poor  apartments; 
they  are  not  worthy — " 

"I  would  see  Sir  John  Falstaff,  sir,"  said 
the  lady  courteously,  but  with  some  re- 
serve of  manner,  looking  him  full  in  the 
face  as  she  said  this. 

"Indeed,  madam,"  suggested  Sir  John, 
"  an  those  bright  eyes — whose  glances  have 
already  cut  my  poor  heart  into  as  many 
pieces  as  the  man  i'  the  front  of  the  almanac 
—will  but  desist  for  a  moment  from  such 
butcher's  work  and  do  their  proper  duty, 
you  will  have  little  trouble  in  finding  the 
man  you  seek." 

"Are  you  Sir  John?"  asked  the  lady,  as 
though  suspecting  a  jest,  or,  perhaps,  in 
sheer  astonishment.  "The  son  of  old  Sir 
John  Falstaff,  of  Norfolk?" 

"His  wife   hath  frequently  assured  me 

so,"  Sir  John  protested,  very  gravely;  "and 

57 


€(. 


•V 


to  confirm  her  evidence  I  have  a  certain 
villanous  thirst  about  me  that  did  plague 
the  old  Sir  John  sorely  in  his  lifetime,  and 
came  to  me  with  his  other  chattels.  The 
property  I  have  expended  long  since;  but 
no  Jew  will  advance  me  a  maravedi  on  the 
Falstaff  thirst.  'Tis  not  to  be  bought  or 
sold;  you  might  quench  it  as  soon." 

"I  would  not  have  known  you,"  said 
the  lady,  wonderingly;  "but,"  she  added, 
"  I  have  not  seen  you  these  forty  years." 

"Faith,  madam,"  grinned  the  knight, 
"the  great  pilferer  Time  hath  since  then 
taken  away  a  little  from  my  hair,  and 
added  somewhat  (saving  your  presence)  to 
my  belly;  and  my  face  hath  not  been  im- 
proved by  being  the  grindstone  for  some 
hundred  swords.  But  I  do  not  know  you." 
"I  am  Sylvia  Vernon,"  said  the  lady. 
"  And  once,  a  long  while  ago,  I  was  Sylvia 
Darke." 

"I  remember,"  said  the  knight.  His 
voice  was  strangely  altered.  Bardolph 
would  not  have  known  it;  nor,  perhaps, 
would  he  have  recognized  his  master's 
58 


manner  as  he  handed  Mistress  Vernon  to  a 


"A  long  while  ago,"  she  repeated,  sadly, 
after  a  pause  during  which  the  crackling 
1    of  the  fire  was  very  audible.     "Time  hath 
dealt   harshly   with   us   both,  John;  —  the 

\iv>j?C    w ' LJ 

name  hath  a  sweet  savor.  I  am  an  old 
woman  now.  And  you — 

"I  would  not  have  known  you,"  said 
Sir  John;  then  asked,  almost  resentfully, 
"What  do  you  here?" 

"  My  son  goes  to  the  wars,"  she  answered, 
fig  "  and  I  am  come  to  bid  him  farewell ;  yet  I 

*    J 

may  not  tarry  in  London,  for  my  lord  is 
feeble  and  hath  constant  need  of  me.  And 
I,  an  old  woman,  am  yet  vain  enough  to 
steal  these  few  moments  from  him  who 
needs  me  to  see  for  the  last  time,  mayhap, 
^E  him  who  was  once  my  very  dear  friend." 

"I  was  never  your  friend,  Sylvia,"  said 
Sir  John. 

"Ah,  the  old  wrangle!"  said  the  lady,  and 

smiled   a  little   wistfully.     "My  dear  and 

^&  very  honored  lover,  then;  and  I  am  come 

to  see  him  here." 


"Ay!"  interrupted  Sir  John,  rather  has- 
tily; then  proceeded,  glowing  with  benevo- 
lence: "A  quiet,  orderly  place,  where  I 
bestow  my  patronage;  the  woman  of  the 
house  had  once  a  husband  in  my  company. 
God  rest  his  soul !  he  bore  a  good  pike.  He 
retired  in  his  old  age  and  'stablished  this 
tavern,  where  he  passed  his  declining  years, 
till  death  called  him  gently  away  from 
this  naughty  world.  God  rest  his  soul, 
say  I!" 

This  was  a  somewhat  euphemistic  version 
of  the  taking-off  of  Goodman  Quickly,  who 
had  been  knocked  over  the  head  with  a 
joint-stool  while  rifling  the  pockets  of  a 
drunken  guest ;  but  perhaps  Sir  John  wished 
to  speak  well  of  the  dead. 

"And  you  for  old  memories'  sake  yet  aid 
his  widow?"  the  lady  murmured.  "Tis 
like  you,  John." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  the  fire 
crackled  more  loudly  than  ever. 

"You  are  not  sorry  that  I  came?"  Mis- 
tress Vernon  asked,  at  last. 

"  Sorry  ?"  echoed  Sir  John ;  and,  ungallant 
60 


as  it  was,  hesitated  a  moment  before  reply- 
ing: "No,  i'  faith!  But  there  are  some 
ghosts  that  will  not  easily  bear  raising,  and 
you  have  raised  one." 

"We  have  summoned  up  no  very  fearful 
ghost,  I  think,"  said  the  lady;  "at  most, 
no  'worse  than  a  pallid,  gentle  spirit  that 
speaks — to  me,  at  least — of  a  boy  and  a 
girl  that  loved  one  another  and  were  very 
happy  a  great  while  ago." 

"Are  you  come  hither  to  seek  that  boy?" 
asked  the  knight,  and  chuckled,  though 
not  merrily.  "The  boy  that  went  mad 
and  rhymed  of  you  in  those  far-off  dusty 
years?  He  is  quite  dead,  my  lady;  he  was 
drowned,  mayhap,  in  a  cup  of  wine.  Or  he 
was  slain,  perchance,  by  a  few  light  women. 
I  know  not  how  he  died.  But  he  is  quite 
dead,  my  lady,  and  I  was  not  haunted  by 
his  ghost  until  to-day." 

He  stared  down  at  the  floor  as  he  ended ; 
then  choked,  and  broke  into  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing that  he  would  have  given  ten  pounds, 
had  he  possessed  them,  to  prevent. 

"  He  was  a  dear  boy,"  she  said,  presently; 
61 


"a  boy  who  loved  a  woman  very  truly;  a 
boy  that,  finding  her  heart  given  to  another, 
yielded  his  right  in  her,  and  went  forth  into 
the  world  without  protest." 

"Faith!"  admitted  Sir  John,  "the  rogue 
had  his  good  points." 

"Ah,  John,  you  have  not  forgotten,  I 
know,"  the  lady  said,  looking  up  into  his 
face,  "and  you  will  believe  me  that  I  am 
very  heartily  sorry  for  the  pain  I  brought 
into  your  life?" 

"My  wounds  heal  easily,"  said  Sir  John. 

"For  though  I  might  not  accept  your 
love,  believe  me — ah,  believe  me,  John,  I 
always  knew  the  value  of  that  love;  'tis 
an  honor  that  any  woman  might  be  proud 
of." 

"Dear  lady,"  the  knight  suggested,  with 
a  slight  grimace,  "the  world  is  not  alto- 
gether of  your  opinion." 

"  I  know  not  of  the  world,"  she  said ; '' for 
we  live  very  quietly.  But  we  have  heard 
of  you  ever  and  anon;  I  have  your  life 
quite  letter-perfect  for  these  forty  years  or 
more." 

62 


"You  have  heard  of  me?"  asked  Sir 
John;  and  he  looked  rather  uncomfortable. 

"As  a  gallant  and  brave  soldier,"  she 
answered;  "of  how  you  fought  at  sea  with 
Mowbray  that  was  afterward  Duke  of 
Norfolk;  of  your  knighthood  by  King 
Richard;  and  how  you  slew  the  Percy  at 
Shrewsbury;  and  captured  Coleville  o'  late 
in  Yorkshire ;  and  how  the  Prince,  that  now 
is  King,  did  love  you  above  all  men ;  and,  in 
fine,  I  know  not  what." 

Sir  John  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  He 
said,  with  commendable  modesty:  "I  have 
fought  somewhat.  But  we  are  not  Bevis 
of  Southampton;  we  have  slain  no  giants. 
Heard  you  naught  else?" 

"Little  else  of  note,"  replied  the  lady; 
and  went  on,  very  quietly:  "But  we  are 
proud  of  you  at  home.  And  such  tales 
as  I  have  heard  I  have  woven  together  in 
one  story;  and  I  have  told  it  many  times 
to  my  children  as  we  sat  on  the  old  Chapel 
steps  at  evening,  and  the  shadows  length- 
ened across  the  lawn ;  and  bid  them  emulate 
this,  the  most  perfect  knight  and  gallant 
63 


jteafi 


gentleman  that  I  have  known.  And  they 
love  you,  I  think,  though  but  by  repute." 

Once  more  silence  fell  between  them ;  and 
the  fire  grinned  wickedly  at  the  mimic  fire 
reflected  by  the  old  chest,  as  though  it  knew 
of  a  most  entertaining  secret. 

"Do  you  yet  live  at  Winstead?"  asked 
Sir  John,  half  idly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "in  the  old  house. 
It  is  little  changed,  but  there  are  many 
changes  about." 

"  Is  Moll  yet  with  you  that  did  once 
carry  our  letters?"  queried  the  knight. 

"  Married  to  Hodge,  the  tanner,"  the  lady 
said;  "and  dead  long  since." 

"And  all  our  merry  company?"  Sir  John 
demanded.  "Marian?  And  Tom  and  little 
Osric?  And  Phyllis?  And  Adelais?  Tis 
like  a  breath  of  country  air  to  speak  their 
names  once  more." 

"All  dead,"  she  answered,  in  a  hushed 
voice,  "save  Adelais,  and  she  is  very  old; 
for  Robert  was  slain  in  the  French  wars, 
and  she  hath  never  married." 

"All  dead,"  Sir  John  informed  the  fire, 
64 


'  y~r\ 


of  3Falsiaff 


confidentially;  then  laughed,  though  his 
bloodshot  eyes  were  not  merry.  "This 
same  Death  hath  a  wide  maw!  'Tis  not 
long  before  you  and  I,  my  lady,  will  be  at 
supper  with  the  worms.  But  you,  at 
least,  have  had  a  happy  life." 

"I  have  been  happy,"  she  said,  "but  I 
am  a  little  weary  now.  My  dear  lord  is 
very  infirm,  and  hath  grown  querulous  of 
late,  and  I,  too,  am  old." 

"Faith!"  agreed  Sir  John,  "we  are  both 
old ;  and  I  had  not  known  it,  my  lady,  until 
to-day." 

Again  there  was  silence;  and  again  the  r 
fire  leapt  with  delight  at  the  jest. 

Mistress  Vernon  rose  suddenly  and  cried, 
"  I  would  I  had  not  come!" 

"  'Tis  but  a  feeble  sorrow  you  have 
brought,"  Sir  John  reassured  her.  He 
continued,  slowly,  "  Our  blood  runs  thinner 
than  of  yore;  and  we  may  no  longer,  I 
think,  either  sorrow  or  rejoice  very  deeply." 

"It  is  true,"  she  said;  "but  I  must  go; 


and,   indeed, 
come!" 


I  would  to  God  I  had  not 


Sin*   nf  San* 


Sir  John  was  silent;  he  bowed  his  head, 
in  acquiescence  perhaps,  in  meditation  it 
may  have  been  ;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"Yet,"  said  she,  "there  is  something  here 
that  I  must  keep  no  longer;  'tis  all  the 
letters  you  ever  writ  me." 

Whereupon  she  handed  Sir  John  a  little 
packet  of'  very  old  and  very  faded  papers. 
He  turned  them  over  awkwardly  in  his 
hand  once  or  twice;  then  stared  at  them; 
then  at  the  lady. 

"You  have  kept  them  —  always?"  he 
cried. 

"Yes,"  she  responded,  wistfully;  "but  I 
must  not  any  longer.  Tis  a  villanous  ex- 
ample to  my  grandchildren,"  Mistress  Ver- 
non  added,  and  smiled.  "Farewell." 

Sir  John  drew  close  to  her  and  caught  her 
by  both  wrists.  He  looked  into  her  eyes 
for  an  instant,  holding  himself  very  erect,— 
and  it  was  a  rare  event  when  Sir  John  looked 
anyone  squarely  in  the  eyes,  —  and  said, 
wonderingly,  "How  I  loved  you!" 

"I  know,"  she  murmured.  Sylvia  Ver- 
non  gazed  up  into  his  bloated  face  with  a 
66 


;• 


VN 
"^  ^ 

<£ 
$£ 


proud  tenderness  that  was  half-regretful. 
A  catch  came  into  her  gentle  voice.  "  And 
I  thank  you  for  your  gift,  my  lover,  —  O 
brave  true  lover,  whose  love  I  was  ne'er 
ashamed  to  own!  Farewell,  my  dear;  yet 
a  little  while,  and  I  go  to  seek  the  boy  and 
girl  we  wot  of." 

"I  shall  not  be  long,  madam,"  said  Sir 
John.  "Speak  a  kind  word  for  me  in 
Heaven;  for,"  he  added,  slowly,  "I  shall 
have  sore  need  of  it." 

She  had  reached  the  door  by  this.  "  You 
are  not  sorry  that  I  came?"  she  pleaded. 

Sir  John  answered,  very  sadly:  "There 
are  many  wrinkles  now  in  your  dear  face, 
my  lady ;  the  great  eyes  are  a  little  dimmed, 
and  the  sweet  laughter  is  a  little  cracked; 
but  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  seen  you  thus. 
For  I  have  loved  no  woman  truly  save  you 
alone;  and  I  am  not  sorry.  Farewell." 
And  for  a  moment  he  bowed  his  unreverend 
gray  head  over  her  shrivelled  fingers. 


^ 


^ 


^ 


III 

IHtrlf,  aa  Attmnt   Writers 
Export, 


>fr 


jORD,  Lord,  how  subject 
we  old  men  are  to  the  vice 
of  lying!"  chuckled  Sir 
John,  and  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair  and 
mumbled  over  the  jest. 
"Yet  'twas  not  all  a  lie,"  he  confided, 
in  some  perplexity,  to  the  fire ;  "  but  what 
a  coil  over  a  youthful  green-sickness  'twixt 
a  lad  and  a  wench  more  than  forty  years 
syne! 

"  I  might  have  had  money  of  her  for  the 
asking,"  he  presently  went  on;  "yet  I  am 
glad  I  did  not ;  which  is  a  parlous  sign  and 
smacks  of  dotage." 

68 


k 


of  3Ulstaff 


He  nodded  very  gravely  over  this  new 
and  alarming  phase  of  his  character. 

"Were't  not  a  quaint  conceit,  a  merry 
tickle-brain  of  Fate,"  he  asked  of  the  leap- 
ing flames,  after  a  still  longer  pause,  "that 
this  mountain  of  malmsey  were  once  a 
delicate  stripling  with  apple  cheeks  and  a 
clean  breath,  smelling  o'  civet,  and  as  mad 
for  love,  I  warrant  you,  as  any  Amadis  of 
them  all?  For,  if  a  man  were  to  speak 
truly,  I  did  love  her. 

"  I  had  the  special  marks,  of  the  pesti- 
lence," he  assured  a  particularly  incredu- 
lous- and  obstinate-looking  coal,  —  a  grim,  a 
black  fellow  that,  lurking  in  a  corner, 
scowled  forbiddingly  and  seemed  to  defy 
both  the  flames  and  Sir  John  :  "  Not  all  the 
flagons  and  apples  in  the  universe  might 
have  comforted  me  ;  I  was  wont  to  sigh  like 
a  leaky  bellows;  to  weep  like  a  wench  that 
hath  lost  her  grandam;  to  lard  my  speech 
with  the  fag-ends  of  ballads  like  a  man 
milliner;  and  did,  indeed,  indite  sonnets, 
canzonets,  and  what  not  of  mine  own. 

"And   Moll   did   carry   them,"   he   con- 
5  69 


tinued;  "Moll  that  hath  married  Hodge, 
the  tanner,  and  is  dead  long  since."  But 
the  coal  remained  incredulous,  and  the 
flames  crackled  merrily. 

"Lord,  Lord,  what  did  I  not  write?" 
said  Sir  John,  drawing  out  a  paper  from 
the  packet,  and  deciphering  the  faded 
writing  by  the  firelight. 

Read  Sir  John : 

"  Have  pity,  Sylvia  !     For  without  thy  door 
Now  stands  with  dolorous  cry  and  clam- 
oring 
Faint-hearted  Love,  that  there  hath  stood  of 

yore: 
Though  Winter  draweth  on,  and  no  birds 

sing 
Within    the    woods,    yet    as    in    wanton 

Spring 

He  follows  thee;  and  never  will  have  done, 
Though  nakedly  he  die,  from  following 
Whither  thou  leadest. 

"  Canst  thou  look  upon 
His  woes,  and  laugh  to  see  a  goddess'  son 
Of  wide  dominion  and  great  empery, 
70 


(57 


<! 

\z 


strong  than  Jove,   more  wise  than 
Solomon, 

Too  weak  to  combat  thy  severity? 
Have  pity,  Sylvia!     And  let  Love  be  one 
Among  the  folk  that  bear  thee  company. 

"  Is't  not  the  very  puling  speech  of  your 
true  lover?"  he  chuckled;  and  the  flames 
spluttered  assent.  "Among  the  folk  that 
bear  thee  company,"  he  repeated,  and  after-  > 
ward  looked  about  him  with  a  smack  of 
gravity.  "  Faith,  Adam  Cupid  hath  for- 
sworn my  fellowship  long  since ;  he  hath  no 
score  chalked  up  against  him  at  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern ;  or,  if  he  have,  I  doubt  not  a 
beggar  might  discharge  it. 

"And  she  hath  commended  me  to  her 
children  as  a  very  gallant  gentleman  and 
a  true  knight,"  he  went  on,  reflectively. 
He  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  ceiling,  and 
grinned  at  invisible  deities.  "Jove  that 
sees  all  hath  a  goodly  commodity  of  mirth ; 
I  doubt  not  his  sides  ache  at  times,  as  they 
had  conceived  another  wine-god. 

"Yet,  by  my  honor,"  he  insisted  to  the 


IGute   of 


fire;  then  added,  apologetically, — "if  I  had 
any,  which,  to  speak  plain,  I  have  not, — I 
am  glad;  it  is  a  brave  jest;  and  I  did  love 
her  once." 

He  picked  out  another  paper  and  read: 
"'My  dear  lady, — That  I  am  not  with 
thee  to-night  is,  indeed,  no  fault  of  mine; 
for  Sir  Thomas  Mowbray  hath  need  of  me, 
he  saith.  Yet  the  service  that  I  have 
rendered  him  thus  far  is  but  to  cool  my 
heels  in  his  antechamber  and  dream  of  two 
great  eyes  and  of  that  net  of  golden  hair 
wherewith  Lord  Love  hath  lately  snared  my 
poor  heart.  For  it  comforts  me — '  And 
so  on,  and  so  on,  the  pen  trailing  most 
juvenal  sugar,  like  a  fly  newly  crept  out  of 
the  honey -pot.  And  ending  with  a  posy, 
filched,  I  warrant  you,  from  some  ring. 

"  I  remember  when  I  did  write  her  this," 
he  explained  to  the  fire.  "Lord,  Lord,  an 
the  fire  of  grace  were  not  quite  out  of  me, 
now  should  I  be  moved.  For  I  did  write  it ; 
and  'twas  sent  with  a  sonnet,  all  of  Hell,  and 
Heaven,  and  your  pagan  gods,  and  other 
tricks  o'  speech.  It  should  be  somewhere." 
72 


He  fumbled  with  uncertain  fingers  among 
the  papers.  "Ah,  here  'tis,"  he  said  at 
last,  and  again  began  to  read  aloud. 

Read  Sir  John : 

"Cupid  invaded  Hell,  and  boldly  drove 
Before  him  all  the  hosts  of  Erebus 
Till  he  had  conquered ;  and  grim  Cerberus 
Sang  madrigals,  the  Furies  rhymed  of  love, 
Old  Charon  sighed,  and  sonnets  rang  above 
The  gloomy  Styx,  and  even  as  Tantalus 
Was  Proserpine  discrowned  in  Tartarus, 
And  Cupid  regnant  in  the  place  thereof. 


"  Thus  Love  is  monarch  throughout  Hell  to- 
day; 

In  Heaven  we  know  his  power  was  al- 
ways great; 
And    Earth    acclaimed     Love's    mastery 
straightway 


When  Sylvia  came  to  gladden  Earth's 

estate : 

Thus  Hell  and  Heaven  and  Earth  his  rule 
obey, 

A  vgy    /*"" 

And  Sylvia's  heart  alone  is  obdurate. 


"Well,  well,"  sighed  Sir  John,  "'twas  a 
goodly  rogue  that  writ  it,  though  the  verse 
runs  but  lamely!  A  goodly  rogue! 

"He  might,"  he  suggested,  tentatively, 
"have  lived  cleanly,  and  forsworn  sack; 
he  might  have  been  a  gallant  gentleman, 
and  begotten  grandchildren,  and  had  a 
quiet  nook  at  the  ingleside  to  rest  his  old 
bones:  but  he  is  dead  long  since.  He 
might  have  writ  himself  armigero  in  many 
a  bill,  or  obligation,  or  quittance,  or  what 
not;  he  might  have  left  something  behind 
him  save  unpaid  tavern  bills;  he  might 
have  heard  cases,  harried  poachers,  and 
quoted  old  saws ;  and  slept  through  sermons 
yet  unwrit,  beneath  his  presentment,  done 
in  stone,  and  a  comforting  bit  of  Latin: 
but,"  he  reassured  the  fire,  "he  is  dead 
long  since." 

Sir  John  sat  meditating  for  a  while;  it 
had  grown  quite  dark  in  the  room  as  he 
muttered  to  himself.  Suddenly  he  rose 
with  a  start. 

"By'r  lady!"  he  cried,  "I  prate  like  a 
death's-head!  What's  done  is  done,  God 


r 


ha'  mercy  on  us  all!  And  I'll  read  no 
more  of  the  rubbish." 

He  cast  the  packet  into  the  heart  of  the 
fire ;  the  yellow  papers  curled  at  the  edges, 
rustled  a  little,  and  blazed;  he  watched 
them  burn  to  the  last  spark. 

"A  cup  of  sack  to  purge  the  brain!" 
cried  Sir  John,  and  filled  one  to  the  brim. 
"And  I'll  go  sup  with  Doll  Tearsheet." 


SEPTEMBER    29,   1422 

Anoon  her  herte  hath  pitee  of  his  wo, 

And  with  that  pitee,  love  com  in  also; 

Thus  is  this  quene  in  plcasaunce  and  in  loye. 


/ 

-«.  a 


FIND  on  consultation  of  the  Allonby 
records  that  Sylvia  Vernon  died  of  a 
quinsy  in  1419,  surviving  her  husband 
by  some  three  months.  She  had  borne  him  four 
sons  and  two  daughters;  and  of  these  there 
remained  at  Winstead  in  1422  only  Sir 
Hugh  Vernon,  the  oldest  son,  knighted  by 
Henry  V.  at  Agincourt,  where  Vernon  had 
fought  with  distinction;  and  Adelais  Vernon, 
the  younger  daughter,  with  whom  the  follow- 
ing has  to  do. 


^i/ 


:--~'^\ 

T-S 


'/v* 

i A 

W 


fflalUi 

AbHata  M 


at 


T  was  on  a  clear  Septem- 
ber day  that  the  Marquis 
of  Falmouth  set  out  for 
France.  John  of  Bedford 
had  summoned  him  post- 
haste when  Henry  V.  was 
stricken  at  Senlis  with  what  bid  fair  to 
prove  a  mortal  distemper;  for  the  marquis 
was  Bedford's  comrade-in-arms,  veteran  of 
Shrewsbury,  Agincourt  and  other  martial 
disputations,  and  the  Duke  -Regent  sus- 
pected that,  to  hold  France  in  case  of  the 
81 


^ 
v^l 


Sin*   of  Sou* 


King's  death,  he  would  presently  need  all 
the  help  he  could  muster. 

"And  I,  too,  look  for  warm  work,"  the 
marquis  conceded  to  Mistress  Adelais  Ver- 
non,  at  parting.  "  But,  God  willing,  my 
sweet,  we  shall  be  wed  at  Christmas  for 
all  that.  The  Channel  is  not  very  wide. 
At  a  pinch  I  might  swim  it,  I  think,  to 
come  to  you." 

Then  he  kissed  her  and  rode  away  with 
his  men.  Adelais  stared  after  them,  striv- 
ing to  picture  her  betrothed  rivalling 
Leander  in  this  fashion,  and  subsequently 
laughed.  The  marquis  was  a  great  lord 
and  a  brave  captain,  but  long  past  his 
first  youth;  his  blood  ran  somewhat  too 
sluggishly  ever  to  be  roused  to  the  high 
lunacies  of  the  Sestian  amorist.  But  a  mo- 
ment later,  recollecting  the  man's  cold  desire 
of  her,  his  iron  fervors,  Adelais  shuddered. 

This  was  in  the  court-yard  at  Winstead. 
Roger  Darke  of  Yaxham,  her  cousin,  stand- 
ing beside  her,  noted  the  gesture  and  snarled. 

"Think  twice  of  it,  Adelais,"  said  he. 

Whereupon  Mistress  Vernon  flushed  like 
82 


a  peony.  "I  honor  him,"  she  said,  with 
some  irrelevance,  "and  he  loves  me." 

"Love,  love!"  Roger  scoffed.  "O  you 
piece  of  ice !  You  gray-stone  saint !  What 
do  you  know  of  love?"  On  a  sudden  Mas- 
ter Darke  caught  both  her  hands  in  his. 
"  Now,  by  Almighty  God,  our  Saviour  and 
Redeemer,  Jesus  Christ!"  he  said,  between 
his  teeth,  his  eyes  flaming ;  "  I,  Roger  Darke, 
have  offered  you  undefiled  love  and  you 
have  mocked  at  it.  Ha,  Tears  of  Mary! 
how  I  love  you!  And  you  mean  to  marry 
this  man  for  his  title !  Do  you  not  believe 
that  I  love  you,  Adelais?"  he  whimpered. 

Gently  she  disengaged  herself.  This  was 
of  a  pattern  with  Roger's  behavior  any 
time  during  the  past  two  years.  "I  sup- 
pose you  do,"  Adelais  conceded,  with  the 
tiniest  possible  shrug.  "Perhaps  that  is 
why  I  find  you  so  insufferable." 

Afterward  Mistress  Vernon  turned  on 
her  heel  and  left  Master  Darke.  In  his 
fluent  invocation  of  Mahound  and  Terma- 
gaunt  and  other  overseers  of  the  damned 
he  presently  touched  upon  eloquence. 


O&n*    roiily 


iDELAIS  came  into  the 
walled  garden  of  Winstead, 
aflame  now  with  Autumnal 
scarlet  and  gold.  There  she 
seated  herself  upon  a  semi- 
circular marble-bench,  and 
laughed  for  no  apparent  reason,  and  con- 
tentedly waited  what  Dame  Luck  might  send. 
She  was  a  comely  maid,  past  argument 
or  (as  her  lovers  habitually  complained) 
any  adequate  description.  Circe,  Colchian 
Medea,  Viviane  du  Lac,  were  their  favorite 
analogues;  and  what  old  romancers  had 
fabled  concerning  these  ladies  they  took  to 
be  the  shadow  of  which  Adelais  Vernon  was 
the  substance.  At  times  they  might  have 
supported  this  contention  with  a  certain 
84 


speciousness.  As  to-day,  for  example,  when 
against  the  garden's  hurly-burly  of  color, 
the  prodigal  blazes  of  scarlet  and  saffron 
and  wine-yellow,  her  green  gown  glowed 
like  an  emerald,  and  her  eyes,  too,  were 
emeralds,  vivid,  inscrutable,  of  a  clear 
verdancy  that  was  quite  untinged  with 
either  blue  or  gray.  Very  black  lashes 
shaded  them.  The  long  oval  of  her  face, 
(you  might  have  objected),  was  of  an  ab- 
solute pallor,  rarely  quickening  to  a  flush; 
but  her  petulant  lips  burned  crimson,  and 
her  hair  mimicked  the  dwindling  radiance 
of  the  Autumn  sunlight  and  shamed  it. 
All  in  all,  the  beauty  of  Adelais  Vernon 
was,  beyond  any  questioning,  spiced  with  a 
sorcerous  tang ;  say,  the  beauty  of  a  young 
witch  shrewd  at  love-potions,  but  ignorant 
of  their  flavor ;  yet  before  this  it  had  stirred 
men's  hearts  to  madness,  and  the  county 
boasted  it. 

Presently    Adelais   lifted   her   small  im- 
perious head,  and  then  again  she  smiled, 
for  out  of  the  depths  of  the  garden,  with 
an  embellishment  of  divers  trills  and  rou- 
6  85 


y4&  °^ 

*Lf ' 


lades,  there  came  a  man's  voice  that  carolled 
blithely. 

Sang  the  voice: 


"Had  you  lived  when  earth  was  new 
What  had  bards  of  old  to  do 
Save  to  sing  the  song  of  you  ? 

"  Had  you  lived  in  ancient  days, 
Adelais,  sweet  Adelais, 
You  had  all  the  ancients'  praise,  — 
You  whose  beauty  might  have  won 
Canticles  of  Solomon, 
Had  the  old  Judean  king 
E'er  beheld  the  goodliest  thing 
Earth  of  Heaven's  grace  hath  got. 


"Had  you  gladdened  Greece,  were  not 
All  the  nymphs  of  Greece  forgot? 

"Had  you  trod  Sicilian  ways, 
Adelais,  sweet  Adelais, 
You  had  pilfered  all  their  praise  : 
Bion  and  Theocritus 
Had  transmitted  unto  us 


$6 


Honeyed  sounds  and  songs  to  tell 
Of  your  beauty's  miracle, 
Delicate,  desirable, 
And  their  singing  skill  were  bent 
You  alone  to  praise,  content, 
While  the  world  slipped  by,  to  gaze 
On  the  grace  of  'you  and  praise 
Sweet  Adelais." 

Here  the  song  ended,  and  a  man,  wheel- 
ing about  the  hedge,  paused  and  regarded 
her  with  adoring  eyes.  Adelais  looked  up 
at  him,  incredibly  surprised  by  his  coming. 

This  was  the  young  Sieur  d'Arnaye, 
Hugh  Vernon's  prisoner,  taken  at  Agin- 
court  seven  years  earlier  and  held  since 
then,  by  the  King's  command,  without 
ransom;  for  it  was  Henry's  policy  to  re- 
lease none  of  the  important  French  prison- 
ers. Even  on  his  death-bed  he  found  time 
to  admonish  his  brother,  John  of  Bed- 
ford, that  four  of  these — Charles  d'Orleans 
and  Jehan  de  Bourbon  and  Arthur  de 
Rougemont  and  Fulke  d'Arnaye  —  should 
never  be  set  at  liberty.  "  Lest,"  as  he  said, 
87 


®lj*   Sttt* 

with  a  savor  of  prophecy,  "more  fire  be 
kindled  in  one  day  than  may  be  quenched 
in  three." 

Presently  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye  sighed, 
rather  ostentatiously;  and  Adelais  laughed 
and  demanded  the  cause  of  his  grief. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said, — his  English 
had  but  a  trace  of  accent, — "  I  am  afflicted 
with  a  very  grave  malady." 

"And  the  name  of  this  malady?"  said 
she. 

"They  call  it  love,  mademoiselle." 

Adelais  laughed  yet  again  and  doubted  if 
the  disease  were  incurable.  But  Fulke 
d'Arnaye  seated  himself  beside  her  and 
demonstrated  that,  in  his  case,  it  might 
never  be  healed. 

"For  it  is  true,"  he  observed,  "that  the 
ancient  Scythians,  who  lived  before  the 
moon  was  made,  were  wont  to  cure  this 
distemper  by  blood-letting  under  the  ears; 
but  your  brother,  mademoiselle,  denies  me 
access  to  all  knives.  And  the  leech  ^Elian 
avers  that  it  may  be  cured  by  the  herb 
agnea;  but  your  brother,  mademoiselle, 


5 


will  not  permit  that  I  go  into  the  fields  in 
search  of  this  herb.  And  in  Greece — he", 
mademoiselle.  I  might  easily  be  healed  of 
my  malady  in  Greece!  For  there  is  the 
rock,  Leucata  Petra,  from  which  a  lover 
may  leap  and  be  cured ;  and  the  well  of  the 
Cyziceni,  from  which  a  lover  may  drink 
and  be  cured;  and  the  river  Selemnus,  in 
which  a  lover  may  bathe  and  be  cured :  and 
your  brother  will  not  permit  that  I  go  to 
Greece.  You  have  a  very  cruel  brother, 
mademoiselle;  seven  long  years,  no  less,  he 
has  penned  me  here  like  a  starling  in  a 
cage."  And  Fulke  d'Arnaye  shook  his 
head  at  her  reproachfully. 

Afterward  he  laughed.  Always  this 
Frenchman  found  something  at  which  to 
laugh;  Adelais  could  not  remember  in  all 
the  seven  years  a  time  when  she  had  seen 
him  downcast.  But  now  as  his  lips  jested 
of  his  imprisonment,  his  eyes  stared  at  her 
mirthlessly,  like  a  dog  at  his  master,  and 
her  gaze  fell  before  the  candor  of  the  passion 
she  saw  in  them. 

"My  lord,"  said  Adelais,  "why  will  you 
89 


t  &' 


not  give  your  parole?  Then  might  you  be 
free  to  come  and  go  as  you  would."  A 
little  she  bent  toward  him,  a  covert  red 
showing  in  her  cheeks.  "  To-night  at  Hal- 
vergate  the  Earl  of  Brudenel  holds  the  feast 
of  Saint  Michael.  Give  your  parole,  my 
lord,  and  come  with  us.  There  will  be  fair 
ladies  in  our  company  who  may  perhaps 
heal  your  malady." 

But  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye  only  laughed. 
"I  cannot  give  my  parole,"  he  said,  "since 
I  mean  to  escape  for  all  your  brother's 
care."  Then  he  fell  to  pacing  up  and  down 
before  her.  "Now,  by  Monseigneur  Saint 
M<§dard  and  the  Eagle  that  sheltered  him!" 
he  cried,  in  half  -  humorous  self  -  mockery ; 
"however  thickly  troubles  rain  upon  me,  I 
think  that  I  shall  never  give  up  hoping!" 
After  a  pause,  "Listen,  mademoiselle,"  he 
went  on,  more  gravely,  and  gave  a  nervous 
gesture  toward  the  east,  "  yonder  is  France, 
sacked,  pillaged,  ruinous,  prostrate,  naked 
to  her  enemy.  But  at  Vincennes,  men  say, 
the  butcher  of  Agincourt  is  dying.  With 
him  dies  the  English  power  in  France.  Can 
90 


his  son  hold  that  dear  realm,  think  you 
Are  those  tiny  hands  with  which  he  may 
yet  feed  himself  capable  to  wield  a  sceptre 
Can  he  who  is  yet  beholden  to  nurses 
milk  distribute  sustenance  to  the  law  and 
justice  of  a  nation  ?    He\  I  think  not,  madem- 
oiselle !     France  will  have  need  of  me  short- 
ly.    Therefore,  I  cannot  give  my  parole." 

"Then  must  my  brother  still  lose  his 
sleep,  lord,  for  always  your  safe-keeping  is 
in  his  mind.  Only  to-day  he  set  out  for  the 
coast  at  cock-crow  to  examine  those  French- 
men who  landed  yesterday." 

At  this  he  wheeled  about.     "  Frenchmen !" 

"  Only  Norman  fishermen,  lord,  whom  the 
storm  drove  to  seek  shelter  in  England. 
But  he  feared  they  had  come  to  rescue  you." 

Fulke  d'Arnaye  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"That  was  my  thought,  too,"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh.  "Always  I  dream  of  escape, 
mademoiselle.  Have  a  care  of  me,  sweet 
enemy!  I  shall  escape  yet,  it  may  be." 

"But  I  will  not  have  you  escape,"  said 
Adelais.  She  tossed  her  glittering  little 
head.  "Winstead  would  not  be  Winstead 
91 


Sly*   Ettt*   0f  Unit* 

without  you.  Why,  I  was  but  a  child,  my 
lord,  when  you  came.  Have  you  forgotten, 
then,  the  lank,  awkward  child  who  used  to 
stare  at  you  so  gravely?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  returned,  and  now 
his  voice  trembled  and  still  the  hunger  in 
his  eyes  grew  more  great,  "  I  think  that  in 
all  these  years  I  have  forgotten  nothing — 
not  even  the  most  trivial  happening,  mad- 
emoiselle,— wherein  you  had  a  part.  You 
were  a  very  beautiful  child.  Look  you,  I 
remember  as  if  it  were  yesterday  that  you 
never  wept  when  your  good  lady  mother — 
whose  soul  may  Christ  have  in  his  keeping! 
—was  forced  to  punish  you  for  some  little 
misdeed.  No,  you  never  wept;  but  your 
eyes  would  grow  wistful,  and  you  would 
come  to  me  here  in  the  garden,  and  sit  with 
me  for  a  long  time  in  silence.  'Fulke,' 
you  would  say,  quite  suddenly,  '  I  love  you 
better  than  my  mother.'  And  I  told  you 
that  it  was  wrong  to  make  such  observa- 
tions, did  I  not,  mademoiselle?  My  faith, 
yes!  but  I  may  confess  now  that  I  liked  it," 
Fulke  d'Arnaye  ended,  with  a  faint  chuckle. 
92 


Alulafs 


Adelais  sat  motionless;  but  she  trembled 
a  little.  Certainly  it  was  strange,  she 
thought,  how  the  sound  of  this  man's  voice 
had  power  to  move  her. 

"And  now  the  child  is  a  woman,  —  a 
woman  who  will  presently  be  Marchioness 
of  Falmouth.  Look  you,  when  I  get  free  of 
my  prison  —  and  I  shall  get  free,  never  fear, 
mademoiselle,  —  I  shall  often  think  of  that 
great  lady  in  France  yonder.  For  only  God 
can  curb  a  man's  dreams,  and  God  is  com- 
passionate. So  I  hope  to  dream  nightly  of  a 
gracious  lady  whose  hair  is  gold  and  whose 
eyes  are  colored  like  the  Summer  sea  and 
whose  voice  is  clear  and  low  and  very  won- 
derfully sweet.  Nightly,  I  think,  the  vision 
of  that  dear  enemy  will  hearten  me  to  fight 
for  France  by  day.  In  effect,  mademoiselle, 
your  traitor  beauty  will  yet  aid  me  to 
destroy  your  country.  '  '  The  Sieur  d'Arnaye 
laughed,  somewhat  cheerlessly,  as  he  lifted 
her  hand  to  his  lips. 

Certainly  it  was  strange,  she  thought,  how 
his  least  touch  was  an  alarum  to  her  pulses. 
Adelais  drew  away  from  him,  half  in  fear. 
93 


"No;  ah,  no!"  she  panted;  "remember, 
lord,  I,  too,  am  not  free." 

"  Indeed,  we  tread  on  dangerous  ground," 
the  Frenchman  assented,  with  a  sad  little 
smile.  "  Pardon  me,  mademoiselle.  Even 
were  you  free  of  your  troth-plight — even 
were  I  free  of  my  prison,  most  beautiful 
lady,  I  have  naught  to  offer  you  yonder  in 
that  fair  land  of  France.  They  tell  me 
that  the  owl  and  the  wolf  hunt  undisturbed 
o'  nights  where  Arnaye  once  stood.  My 
chateau  is  carpeted  with  furze  and  roofed 
with  God's  Heaven.  That  gives  me  a  large 
estate — does  it  not? — but  I  may  not  rea- 
sonably ask  a  woman  to  share  it.  So  I 
pray  you  pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  and  I 
pray  that  the  Marchioness  of  Falmouth  may 
be  very  happy." 

And  with  that  he  vanished  into  the 
Autumn-fired  recesses  of  the  garden,  sing- 
ing, his  head  borne  stiff.  O,  the  brave 
•man  who  esteemed  misfortune  so  slightly! 
thought  Adelais.  She  remembered  that  the 
Marquis  of  Falmouth  rarely  smiled;  and 
once  only — at  a  bull-baiting — had  she  heard 
94 


him  laugh.  It  needed  bloodshed,  then,  to 
amuse  him.  Adelais  shuddered. 

But  through  the  scarlet  coppices  of  the 
garden,  growing  fainter  and  yet  more  faint, 
rang  the  singing  of  Fulke  d'Arnaye. 

Sang  the  Frenchman: 

"  Had  you  lived  in  Roman  times 
No  Catullus  in  his  rhymes 
Had  lamented  Lesbia's  sparrow: 
He  had  praised  your  forehead,  narrow 
As  the  newly-crescent  moon, 
White  as  apple-trees  in  June; 
He  had  made  some  amorous  tune 
Of  the  laughing  light  Eros 
Snared  as  Psyche-ward  he  goes 
By  your  beauty, — by  your  slim, 
White,  perfect  beauty. 

"After  him 

Horace,  finding  in  your  eyes 
Horace  throned  in  Paradise, 
Would  have  made  you  melodies 
Fittingly  to  hymn  your  praise, 
Sweet  Adelais." 


III 

is 


>NTO  the  midst  of  the 
Michaelmas  festivities  at 
Halvergate  that  night, 
there  burst  a  mud  -splat- 
tered fellow  in  search  of 
Sir  Hugh  Vernon.  Roger 
Darke  brought  him  to  the  knight.  He 
came,  he  said,  from  Simeon  de  Beck,  the 
master  of  Castle  Rising,  with  tidings  that  a 
strange  boat,  French-rigged,  was  hovering 
about  the  north  coast.  Let  Sir  Hugh  have 
a  care  of  his  prisoner. 

Vernon  swore  roundly.  "  I  must  look 
into  this,"  he  said.  "But  what  shall  I  do 
with  Adelais?" 

"  Will  you  trust  her  to  me  ?"  Roger  asked. 
"If  so,  cousin,  I  will  very  gladly  be  her 
96 


4% 


tw 


escort  to  Winstead.     Let  the  girl  dance  her 
fill  while  she  may,  Hugh.     She  will  have 
little  heart  for  dancing  after  a  month  or 
of  Falmouth's  company." 

"That  is  true,"  Vernon  assented;  "but 
the  match  is  a  good  one,  and  she  is  bent 
upon  it." 

So  presently  he  rode  with  his  men  to  the 
north  coast.  An  hour  later  Roger  Darke 
and  Adelais  set  out  for  Winstead,  in  spite 
of  all  Lady  Brudenel's  protestations  that 
Mistress  Vernon  had  best  lie  with  her  that 
night  at  Halvergate. 

It  was  a  moonlit  night,  cloudless,  neither 
warm  nor  chill,  but  fine  late  September 
weather.  About  them  the  air  was  heavy 
with  the  damp  odors  of  decaying  leaves,  for 
the  road  they  followed  was  shut  in  by  the 
Autumn  woods,  that  now  arched  the  way 
with  sere  foliage,  rustling  and  whirring  and 
thinly  complaining  overhead,  and  now  left  it 
open  to  broad  splashes  of  moonlight,  where 
fallen  leaves  scuttled  about  in  the  wind 
vortices.  Adelais,  elate  with  dancing,  chat- 
tered of  this  and  that  as  her  gray  mare 
97 


Situ   0f  Sotte 


ambled  homeward,  but  Roger  was  some- 
what moody. 

Past  Upton  the  road  branched  in  three 
directions;  and  here  on  a  sudden  Master 
Darke  caught  the  gray  mare's  bridle  and 
turned  both  horses  to  the  left. 

"Roger!"  the  girl  cried,  "Roger,  this  is 
not  the  road  to  Winstead!" 

He  grinned  evilly  over  his  shoulder.  "  It 
is  the  road  to  Yaxham,  Adelais,  where  my 
chaplain  expects  us." 

In  a  flash  she  saw  it  all  as  her  eyes  swept 
the  desolate  woods  about  them.  "  You  will 
not  dare!" 

"Will  I  not?"  said  Roger.  "Faith,  for 
my  part,  I  think  you  have  mocked  me  for 
the  last  time,  Adelais,  since  it  is  the  wife's 
duty,  as  Paul  very  justly  says,  to  obey." 

Swiftly  she  slipped  from  the  mare.  But 
he  followed  her.  "O  God!  O  God!"  the 
girl  cried.  "You  have  planned  this,  you 
coward!" 

"Yes,  I  planned  it,"  said  Roger  Darke. 
"  Yet  I  take  no  great  credit  therefor,  for  it 
was  simple  enough.  I  had  but  to  send  a 
98 


feigned  message  to  your  block-head  brother. 
Ha,  yes,  I  planned  it,  Adelais,  and  I  planned 
it  well.  To-morrow  you  will  be  Mistress 
Darke,  never  fear." 

And  with  that  he  grasped  at  her  cloak 
as  she  shrank  from  him.  The  garment 
fell,  leaving  the  girl  momentarily  free,  her 
festival  jewels  shimmering  in  the  moon- 


s 


light,  her  bared  shoulders  glistening  like 
silver.  Darke,  staring  at  her,  giggled  hor- 
ribly. An  instant  later  Adelais  fell  upon 
her  knees,  sobbing,  the  dead  leaves  under 
her  crackling  sharply  in  the  silence. 

"  Sweet  Christ  have  pity  upon  Thy  hand- 
maiden! Do  not  forsake  me,  sweet  Christ, 
in  my  extremity !  Save  me  from  this  man !" 
she  prayed,  with  an  entire  faith. 

"My  lady  wife,"  said  Darke,  and  his  hot, 
wet  hand  sank  heavily  upon  her  shoulder, 
"  you  had  best  finish  your  prayer  before  my 
chaplain,  I  think,  since  by  ordinary  Holy 
Church  is  skilled  to  comfort  the  sorrow- 

ing." 

"A  miracle,  dear  lord  Christ!"  the  girl 
wailed.     "O  sweet  Christ,  a  miracle!" 
99 


"  Faith  of  God!"  said  Roger,  in  a  flattish 
tone;  "what  was  that?" 

For  faintly  there  came  the  sound  of  one 
singing. 

Sang  the  distant  voice: 

"  Beatric^  were  unknown 
On  her  starlit  Heavenly  throne 
Were  sweet  Adelais  but  seen 
By  the  youthful  Florentine. 

"Ah,  had  he  but  seen  your  face, 
Adelais,  sweet  Adelais, 
High-exalted  in  her  place, — 
Caph,  Aldebaran,  Nibal, 
Tapers  at  the  festival,— 
You  had  heard  Zachariel 
Sing  of  you,  and  singing,  tell 
All  the  grace  of  you,  and  praise 
Sweet  Adelais." 


Vfri 


Imuir    Brings    a 


DELAIS  sprang  to  her  feet. 
"A  miracle!"  she  cried,  her 
voice  shaking.  "Fulke, 
Fulke!  to  me,  Fulke!" 

Master  Darke  hurried  her 
struggling  toward  his  horse, 
muttering  curses  in  his  beard,  for  there  was 
now  the  beat  of  hoofs  in  the  road  yonder 
that  led  to  Winstead.  "  Fulke,  Fulke !"  the 
girl  shrieked. 

Then  presently,  as  Roger  put  foot  to 
stirrup,  two  horsemen  wheeled  about  the 
bend  in  the  road,  and  one  of  them  leapt 
to  the  ground. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Fulke  d'Arnaye, 
"  am  I,  indeed,  so  fortunate  as  to  be  of  any 
service  to  you?" 


x* 


101 


"Ho!"  cried  Roger,  with  a  gulp  of  relief, 
"it  is  only  the  French  dancing-master  tak- 
ing French  leave  of  poor  cousin  Hugh! 
Man,  but  you  startled  me!" 

Now  Adelais  ran  to  the  Frenchman, 
clinging  to  him  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  sobbing 
out  the  whole  foul  story.  His  face  set 
mask-like. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  when  she  had 
ended,  "you  have  wronged  a  sweet  and 
innocent  lady.  As  God  lives,  you  shall 
answer  to  me  for  this." 

"Look  you,"  Roger  pointed  out,  "this 
is  none  of  your  affair,  Monsieur  Jackanapes. 
You  are  bound  for  the  coast,  I  take  it.  Very 
well, — ka  me,  and  I'll  ka  thee.  Do  you  go 
your  way  in  peace,  and  let  us  do  the  same." 

Fulke  d'Arnaye  put  the  girl  aside  and 
spoke  rapidly  in  French  to  his  companion. 
Then  with  mincing  agility  he  stepped  tow- 
ard Master  Darke. 

Roger  blustered.  "You  grinning  fool!" 
said  he,  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"Chastisement!"    said    the    Frenchman, 
and  struck  him  in  the  face. 
102 


•J\J 


EX?* 


"Very  well!"  said  Master  Darke,  strange- 
ly quiet.     And  with  that  they  both  drew. 

The  Frenchman  laughed,  high  and  shrill, 
$\\  as  they  closed,  and  afterward  began  to  pour 

forth  a  voluble  flow  of  discourse.     Battle 
^y 

was  wine  to  the  man. 

"Not  since  Agincourt,  Master  Coward — 
he",  no! — have  I  held  sword  in  hand.  It  is 
a  good  sword,  this, — a  sharp  sword,  is  it  not  ? 
Ah,  the  poor  arm — but  see,  your  blood  is 
quite  red,  monsieur,  and  I  had  thought 
cowards  yielded  a  paler  blood  than  brave 
men  possess.  We  live  and  learn,  do  we  not  ? 
Observe,  I  play  with  you  like  a  child,— 
as  I  played  with  your  King  at  Agincourt 
when  I  cut  away  the  coronet  from  his 
helmet.  I  did  not  kill  him — no! — but  I 
wounded  him,  you  conceive?  Presently  I 
shall  wound  you,  too,  monsieur.  My  com- 
pliments— you  have  grazed  my  hand.  But 
I  shall  not  kill  you,  because  you  are  the 
kinsman  of  the  fairest  lady  earth  may 
boast,  and  I  would  not  willingly  shed  the 
least  drop  of  any  blood  that  is  partly 
hers.  Ohe,  no!  Yet  since  I  needs  must 
103 


^ 


04\ 


^Oy 


do  this  ungallant  thing — why,  see,  mon- 
sieur, how  easy  it  is!" 

Thereupon  he  cut  Roger  down  at  a  blow 
and  composedly  set  to  wiping  his  sword 
on  the  grass.  The  Englishman  lay  like  a 
log  where  he  had  fallen. 

"Lord,"  Adelais  quavered,  "lord,  have 
you  killed  him,  then?" 

Fulke  d'Arnaye  sighed.  "Helas,  no!" 
said  he,  "since  I  knew  that  you  did  not 
wish  it.  See,  mademoiselle, — I  but  struck 
him  with  the  flat  of  my  blade,  this  coward. 
He  will  recover  in  a  half-hour." 

He  stood  as  in  thought  for  a  moment, 
concluding  his  meditations  with  a  grimace. 
After  that  he  began  again  to  speak  in 
French  to  his  companion.  The  debate 
seemed  vital.  The  stranger  gesticulated, 
pleaded,  swore,  implored,  summoned  all 
inventions  between  the  starry  spheres  and 
the  mud  of  Cocytus  to  judge  of  the  affair; 
but  Fulke  d'Arnaye  was  resolute. 

"Behold,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  at 
length,  "how  my  poor  Olivier  excites  him- 
self over  a  little  matter.  Olivier  is  my 
104 


brother,  most  beautiful  lady,  but  he  speaks 
no  English,  so  that  I  cannot  present  him 
to  you.  He  came  to  rescue  me,  this  poor 
Olivier,  you  conceive.  Those  Norman  fish- 
ermen of  whom  you  spoke  to-day — but  you 
English  are  blinded,  I  think,  by  the  fogs 
of  your  cold  island.  Eight  of  the  bravest 
gentlemen  in  France,  mademoiselle,  were 
those  same  fishermen,  come  to  bribe  my 
gaoler, — the  incorruptible  Tompkins,  no 
less.  He,  yes,  they  came  to  tell  me  that 
Henry  of  Monmouth,  by  the  wrath  of  God 
King  of  France,  is  dead  at  Vincennes 
yonder,  mademoiselle,  and  that  France  will 
soon  be  free  of  you  English.  France  rises 
in  her  might  now."  His  nostrils  dilated 
for  a  moment ;  then  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "And  poor  Olivier  grieves  that  I 
may  not  strike  a  blow  for  her,  —  grieves 
that  I  must  go  back  to  Winstead." 

D'Arnaye  laughed  as  he  caught  the 
bridle  of  the  gray  mare  and  turned  her  so 
that  Adelais  might  mount.  But  the  girl 
drew  away  from  him  with  a  faint,  wonder- 
ing cry. 

105 


r        \ 

f/; 


"You  will  go  back!  You  have  escaped, 
lord,  and  you  will  go  back!" 

"Why,  look  you,"  said  the  Frenchman, 
"what  else  may  I  conceivably  do?  We 
are  some  ten  miles  from  your  home,  most 
beautiful  lady, — can  you  ride  those  ten 
long  miles  alone?  in  this  night  so  dan- 
gerous? Can  I  leave  you  here?  He,  sure- 
ly not.  I  am  desolated,  mademoiselle,  but 
I  needs  must  burden  you  with  my  com- 
pany homeward." 

Adelais  drew  a  choking  breath.  He  had 
fretted  out  seven  years  of  captivity.  Now 
he  was  free ;  and  lest  her  name  be  smutched, 
however  faintly,  he  would  go  back  to  his 
prison,  jesting.  "No,  no!"  she  cried  aloud, 
at  the  thought. 

But  he  raised  a  deprecating  hand.  "You 
cannot  go  alone.  Olivier  here  would  go 
with  you  gladly.  Not  one  of  those  brave 
gentlemen  who  await  me  at  the  coast 
yonder  but  would  go  with  you  very,  very 
gladly,  for  they  love  France,  these  brave 
gentlemen,  and  they  think  that  I  can 
serve  her  better  than  most  other  men. 
106 


IJH 


That  is  very  flattering,  is  it  not?  But  all 
the  world  conspires  to  flatter  me,  mad- 
emoiselle. Your  good  brother,  by  exam- 
ple, prizes  my  company  so  highly  that  he 
would  infallibly  hang  the  gentleman  who 
rode  back  with  you.  So,  you  conceive, 
I  cannot  avail  myself  of  their  services. 
But  with  me  it  is  different,  hein?  Ah,  yes, 
he  will  merely  lock  me  up  again  and  for 
the  future  guard  me  more  vigilantly.  Will 
you  not  mount,  mademoiselle?" 

His  voice  was  quiet,  and  his  smile  never 
failed  him.  It  was  this  steady  smile  that 
set  her  heart  to  aching.  Adelais  knew  that 
no  natural  power  could  dissuade  him ;  he 
would  go  back  with  her:  but  she  alone 
knew  how  constantly  he  had  hoped  for 
liberty,  with  what  fortitude  he  had  awaited 
his  chance  of  liberty;  and  that  he  should 
return  to  captivity,  smiling,  thrilled  her  to 
impotent,  heart  -  shaking  rage.  It  mad- 
dened her  that  he  dared  love  her  so 
infinitely. 

"  But,  mademoiselle,"  Fulke  d'Arnaye 
went  on,  when  she  had  mounted,  "let  us 
107 


proceed,  if  it  please  you,  by  way  of  Filby. 
For  then  we  may  ride  a  little  distance  with 
this  rogue  Olivier.  I  may  not  hope  to  see 
Olivier  again  in  this  life,  you  comprehend, 
and  Olivier  is,  I  think,  the  one  person  who 
loves  me  in  all  this  great  wide  world.  Me, 


I  am  not  very  popular,  you  see.     But  you 
do  not  object,  mademoiselle?" 

"Go!"  she  said,  in  a  stifled  voice. 

Afterward  they  rode  on  the  way  to  Filby, 
leaving  Roger  Darke  to  regain  the  master- 
ship of  his  faculties  at  discretion.  The 
two  Frenchmen  talked  vehemently  as  they 
went;  and  Adelais,  following  them,  brood- 
ed on  the  powerful  Marquis  of  Falmouth 
and  the  great  lady  she  would  shortly 
be;  but  her  eyes  strained  after  Fulke 
d'Arnaye. 

Presently  he  fell  a-singing;  and  still  his 
singing  praised  her  in  a  desirous  song,  yearn- 
ing but  very  sweet,  as  they  rode  through  the 
Autumn  woods;  and  his  voice  quickened 
her  pulses  as  always  it  had  the  power  to 
quicken  them,  and  in  her  soul  the  intermi- 
nable battle  dragged  on  and  on. 
1 08 


"&wtet  Aiulata" 

Sang  Fulke  d'Arnaye: 

"Had  you  lived  when  earth  was  new 
What  had  bards  of  old  to  do 
Save  to  sing  the  song  of  you  ? 

"  They  had  sung  of  you  always, 
Adelais,  sweet  Adelais ; 
Ne'er  had  other  name  had  praise, 
Ne'er  had  deathless  memories 
Clung  as  love  .may  cling  to  these 
Sweet,  sad  names  of  Heloise, 
France  sea,  Thisbe,  Bethsabe, 
Morgaine,  Dalida,  Semele, 
Semiramis,  Antiope, 
Iseult,  Lucrece,  Pisidice, 
Alcestis  and  Alcyone; 
But  your  name  had  all  men's  praise, 
Sweet  Adelais." 


[HEN  they  had  crossed  the 
Bure,  they  had  come  into 
the  open  country, — a  great 
plain,  gray  in  the  moon- 
light, that  descended,  hil- 
lock by  hillock,  toward  the 
shores  of  the  North  Sea.  On  the  right  the 
dimpling  lustre  of  tumbling  waters  stretch- 
ed to  a  dubious  sky-line,  unbroken  save  for 
the  sail  of  the  French  boat,  moored  near  the 
ruins  of  the  old  Roman  station,  Garianonum, 
and  showing  very  white  against  the  unrest- 
ing sea,  like  a  naked  arm;  and  to  the  left 
the  lights  of  Filby  flashed  their  unblinking, 
cordial  radiance. 

Here  the  brothers  parted.    Vainly  Olivier 
wept  and  stormed  before  Fulke's  unwaver- 

IIO 


• 


"$ttt**t   A&tUifi 

ing  smile ;  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye  was  adaman- 
tean ;  and  presently  the  younger  man  kissed 
him  on  both  cheeks  and  rode  slowly  away 
toward  the  sea. 

D'Arnaye  stared  after  him.  "Ah,  the 
brave  lad!"  he  said.  "And  yet  how  fool- 
ish! Look  you,  mademoiselle,  that  rogue 
is  worth  ten  of  me,  and  he  does  not  even 
suspect  it." 

His  composure  stung  her  to  madness. 

"Now,  by  the  passion  of  our  Lord  and 
Saviour!"  Adelais  cried,  wringing  her  hands 
in  impotence;  "I  conjure  you  to  hear  me, 
Fulke!  You  must  not  do  this  thing.  O, 
you  are  cruel,  cruel!  Listen,  my  lord,"  she 
went  on  with  more  restraint,  when  she  had 
reined  up  her  horse  by  the  side  of  his, 
"yonder  in  France  the  world  lies  at  your 
feet.  Our  great  King  is  dead.  France  rises 
now,  and  France  needs  a  brave  captain. 
You,  you!  it  is  you  that  she  needs.  She 
has  sent  for  you,  my  lord,  that  mother 
France  whom  you  love.  And  you  will  quiet- 
ly go  back  to  sleep  in  the  sun  at  Winstead 
when  France  has  need  of  you.  O,  it  is  foul !" 
in 


I 


ute   of  £0tt* 


But  he  shook  his  head.  '"  France  is  very 
dear  to  me,"  he  said,  "yet  there  are  other 
men  who  can  serve  France.  And  there 
is  no  man  save  me  who  may  serve  you  to- 
night, most  beautiful  lady." 

"You  shame  me!"  she  cried,  in  a  gust 
of  passion.  "You  shame  my  worthlessness 
with  this  mad  honor  of  yours  that  drags 
you  jesting  to  your  death  !  For  you  must 
die  a  prisoner  now,  without  any  hope. 
You  and  Orleans  and  Bourbon  are  Eng- 
land's only  hold  on  France,  and  Bedford 
dare  not  let  you  go.  Fetters,  chains,  dun- 
geons, death,  torture  perhaps  —  that  is  what 
you  must  look  for  now." 

"  Helas,  you  speak  more  truly  than  an 
oracle,"  he  gayly  assented;  but  still  his 
eyes  strained  after  Olivier. 

Adelais  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"You  love  me,"  she  breathed,  quickly. 
"Ah,  I  am  past  shame  now!  God  knows,  I 
am  not  worthy  of  it,  but  you  love  me. 
Ever  since  I  was  a  child  you  have  loved 
me,  —  always,  always  it  was  you  who  hu- 
mored me,  shielded  me,  protected  me  with 

112 


this  great  love  that  I  have  not  merited. 
Very  well," — she  paused,  for  a  single  heart- 
beat,— "go!  and  take  me  with  you." 

The  hand  he  raised  shook  as  though 
palsied.  "O  most  beautiful!"  the  French- 
man cried,  in  an  extreme  of  adoration; 
"  you  would  do  that !  You  would  do  that  in 
pity  to  save  me — unworthy  me!  And  it 
is  I  whom  you  call  brave — me,  who  annoy 
you  with  my  woes  so  petty!"  Fulke 
d'Arnaye  slipped  from  his  horse,  and 
presently  stood  beside  the  gray  mare, 
holding  a  long,  slim  hand  in  both  of  his. 
"I  thank  you,"  he  said,  simply.  "You 
know  that  it  is  impossible.  But  yes,  I 
have  loved  you  these  seven  years.  And 
now —  Ah,  my  heart  shakes,  my  words 
tumble,  I  cannot  speak!  You  know  that 
I  may  not — may  not  let  you  do  this  thing. 
Even  if  you  loved  me—  He  gave  a 
hopeless  gesture.  "Why,  there  is  always 
our  brave  marquis  to  be  considered,  who 
will  so  soon  make  you  a  powerful  lady. 
And  I? — I  have  nothing." 

But  Adelais  had  rested  either  hand  upon 


a  stalwart  shoulder,  bending  down  to  him 
till  her  hair  brushed  his.  "  Do  you  not 
understand?"  she  whispered.  "Ah,  my 
paladin,  do  you  think  I  speak  in  pity?  I 
wished  to  be  a  great  lady, — yes.  Yet  al- 
ways, I  think,  I  loved  you,  Fulke,  but  until 
to-night  I  had  believed  that  love  was  only 
the  man's  folly,  the  woman's  diversion. 
See,  here  is  Falmouth's  ring."  She  drew  it 
from  her  finger  and  flung  it  into  the  night. 
"Yes,  I  hungered  for  Falmouth's  power, 
but  you  have  shown  me  that  which  is 
above  any  temporal  power.  Ever  I  must 
crave  the  highest,  Fulke.  Ah,  fair  sweet 
friend,  do  not  deny  me!"  Adelais  cried, 
piteously.  "Take  me  with  you,  Fulke!  I 
will  ride  with  you  to  the  wars,  my  lord,  as 
your  page;  I  will  be  your  wife,  your  slave, 
your  scullion.  I  will  do  anything  save 
leave  you.  Lord,  it  is  not  the  maid's  part 
to  plead  thus!" 

Fulke  d'Arnaye  drew  her  warm,  yielding 
body  toward  him  and  stood  in  silence,  chok- 
ing.    Then  he   raised  his  eyes  to   heaven. 
"Dear  Lord   God,"   he   cried,   in   a   great 
114 

.      -vr       ~> 


L»& 


voice,  "I  entreat  of  Thee  that  if  through 
my  fault  this  woman  ever  know  regret  or 
sorrow  I  be  cast  into  the  nethermost  pit  of 
Hell  for  all  eternity!"  Afterward  he  kissed 
her. 

And  presently  Adelais  lifted  her  head 
from  his  shoulder,  with  a  mocking  little 
laugh.  "Sorrow!"  she  echoed.  "I  think 
there  is  no  sorrow  in  all  the  world.  Mount, 
my  lord,  mount !  See  where  brother  Olivier 
waits  for  us  yonder." 


JUNE  5,    1455— AUGUST  4,    1462 

"  Fortune  fuz  par  clercz  jadis  nommee, 
Qui  toi,  Franfois,  crie  et  nomme  meurtriere" 


i 


~fN  France  there  was  work  abundant  for 
t  Fulke  d'Arnaye,  and  he  set  about  it  man- 
-L-  fully;  for  seven  dreary  years  he  and 
Rougemont  and  Dunois  managed,  somehow, 
to  bolster  up  the  cause  of  the  fat-witted  King 
of  Bourges  (as  the  English  then  called  him], 
who  afterward  became  King  Charles  VII.  of 
France.  But  in  the  February  of  1429 — four 
days  before  the  Maid  of  Domremy  set  forth 
from  her  voice-haunted  Bois  Chenu  to  bring 
about  a  certain  coronation  in  Rheims  Church 
and  in  Rouen  Square  a  flamy  martyrdom — 
four  days  to  an  hour  before  the  coming  of  the 
good  Lorrainer,  Fulke  d'Arnaye  was  slain  at 
Rouvray-en-Beausse  in  that  encounter  be- 
tween the  French  and  the  English  which  his- 
tory has  commemorated  as  the  Battle  of  the 
Herrings. 

Adelais  died  the  following  year,   leaving 
two  sons :  Noel,  born  in  1425,  and  Raymond, 
119 


in  1426;  who  were  reared  by  their 
uncle,  Olivier  d'Arnaye.  It  was  said  of 
them  that  Noel  was  the  handsomest  man  of 
his  times,  and  Raymond  the  most  shrewd; 
concerning  that  you  will  judge  hereafter. 
Both  of  them,  on  reaching  manhood,  were 
prominently  identified  with  the  Dauphin's 
party  in  the  unending  squabbles  between 
Charles  VII.  and  the  future  Louis  XI. 

Now  you  may  learn  how  Noel  d'Arnaye 
came  to  be  immortalized  by  a  legacy  of  two 
hundred  and  twenty  blows  from  an  osier- 
whip — since  (as  the  testator  piously  affirms) , 
"  chastoy  est  une  belle  aulmosne." 


P<~T\H 

ffis 


HERE  went  about  the  Rue 
Saint  Jacques  a  notable 
shaking  of  heads  on  the 
day  that  Catherine  de 
Vaucelles  was  betrothed  to 
Frangois  de  Montcorbier. 
"Holy  Virgin!"  said  the  Rue  Saint 
Jacques;  "the  girl  is  a  fool.  Why  has  she 
not  taken  Noel  d'Arnaye, — Noel  the  Hand- 
some? I  grant  you  Noel  is  an  ass,  but, 
then,  he  is  of  the  nobility,  look  you.  He 
has  the  Dauphin's  favor.  Noel  will  be  a 
great  man  when  our  exiled  Dauphin  comes 

121 


from  Geneppe  yonder  to  be  King  of  France. 
Then,  too,  she  might  have  had  Philippe 
Sermaise.  Sermaise  is  a  priest,  of  course, 
and  one  may  not  marry  a  priest,  but  Ser- 
maise has  money,  and  Sermaifee  is  mad  for 
love  of  her.  She  might  have  done  worse. 
But  Francois!  Ho,  death  of  my  life,  what 
is  Francois?  Perhaps  —  he,  he!  —  perhaps 
Ysabeau  de  Montigny  might  inform  us,  you 
say?  Perhaps,  but  I  cannot.  Francois  is 
inoffensive  enough,  I  dare  assert,  but  what 
does  she  see  -in  him  ?  He  is  a  scholar  ?— 
well,  the  College  of  Navarre  has  furnished 
food  for  the  gallows  before  this.  A  poet? 
—rhyming  will  not  fill  the  pot.  Rhymes 
are  a  thin  diet  for  two  lusty  young  folk  like 
these.  And  who  knows  if  Guillaume  de 
Villon,  his  foster-father,  has  one  sou  to  rub 
against  another?  He  is  canon  at  Saint 
Benoit-le-B&ourne"  yonder,  but  canons  are 
not  Midases.  The  girl  will  have  a  hard  life 
of  it,  neighbor,  a  hard  life,  I  tell  you,  if— 
he,  he! — if  Ysabeau  de  Montigny  does  not 
knife  her  some  day.  O,  beyond  doubt, 
Catherine  has  played  the  fool." 


Thus  far  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques. 

This  was  on  the  day  of  the  F£te-Dieu. 
It  was  on  this  day  that  Noel  d'Arnaye 
blasphemed  for  a  matter  of  a  half-hour  and 
then  went  to  the  Crowned  Ox,  where  he 
drank  himself  into  a  contented  insensibility ; 
that  Ysabeau  de  Montigny,  having  wept  a 
little,  sent  for  Gilles  Raguyer,  a  priest  and 
aforetime  a  rival  of  Francois  de  Montcorbier 
for  her  favors;  and  that  Philippe  Sermaise 
grinned  and  said  nothing.  But  afterward 
he  gnawed  at  his  under  lip  like  a  madman 
as  he  went  about  seeking  for  Francois  de 
Montcorbier. 


II 


n'atitflttB  qu'muj 


(tour" 

fT  verged  upon  nine  in  the 
evening — a  late  .  hour  in 
those  days — when  Fran- 
gois  climbed  the  wall  of 
Jehan  de  Vaucelles's  gar- 
den. 

A  wall!— and  what  is  a  wall  to  your  true 
lover?  What  bones,  pray,  did  the  Sieur 
Pyramus,  that  ill-starred  Babylonish  knight, 
make  of  a  wall?  did  not  his  protestations 
slip  through  a  chink,  mocking  at  implacable 
granite  and  more  implacable  fathers  ?  Most 
assuredly  they  did;  and  Pyramus  was  a 
pattern  to  all  lovers.  Thus  ran  the  medi- 
tations of  Master  Frangois  as  he  leapt  down 
into  the  garden. 

124 


CATHERINE  DE  VAUCELLES  IN  HER  GARDEN 


iinrtar 


He  had  not  seen  Catherine  for  three  hours, 
you  understand.  Three  hours  !  three  eterni- 
ties rather,  and  each  one  of  them  spent  in 
Malebolge.  Coming  to  a  patch  of  moon- 
light, Franc,  ois  paused  there  and  cut  an  agile 
caper,  as  he  thought  of  that  approaching 
time  when  he  might  see  Catherine  every 
day. 

"Madame  Francois  de  Montcorbier,  "  he 
said,  tasting  each  syllable  with  gusto. 
"Catherine  de  Montcorbier.  Was  there 
ever  a  sweeter  juxtaposition  of  sounds? 
It  is  a  name  for  an  angel.  And  an  angel 
shall  bear  it,  —  eh,  yes,  an  angel,  no  less. 
O  saints  in  Paradise,  envy  me!  Envy  me," 
he  cried,  with  a  heroical  gesture  toward  the 
stars,  "for  Francois  would  change  places 
with  none  of  you." 

He  crept  through  ordered  rows  of  chest- 
nuts and  acacias  to  a  window  where  a  dim 
light  burned.  Then  he  unslung  a  lute  from 
his  shoulder  and  began  to  sing,  secure  in  the 
knowledge  that  deaf  old  Jehan  de  Vaucelles 
was  not  likely  to  be  disturbed  by  sound  of 
any  nature  till  that  time  when  it  should 
125 

0 


please  God  that  the  last  trump  be  noised 
about  the  tumbling  heavens. 

It  was  good  to  breathe  the  mingled  odor 
of  roses  and  mignonette  that  was  thick 
about  him.  It  was  good  to  sing  to  her  a 
wailing  song  of  unrequited  love  and  know 
that  she  loved  him.  Frangois  dallied  with 
his  bliss,  parodied  his  bliss,  and  —  as  he 
complacently  reflected  —  lamented  in  the 
moonlight  with  as  tuneful  a  dolor  as  Mes- 
sire  Orpheus  may  have  evinced  when  he 
carolled  in  Hades. 

Sang  Franc,  ois: 

•    ^5 

"  O  Beauty  of  her,  whereby  I  am  undone  ! 
O  Grace  of  her,  that  hath  no  grace  for 

me  I 

O  Love  of  her,  the  bit  that  guides  me  on 
To  sorrow  and  to  grievous  misery! 
O  Beauty   of  her,  my  poor  heart's  en- 
emy! 

0  Pride  of  her,  that  slays  !    0  pitiless,  great, 
Sweet    Eyes    of   her!    Have   done   with 

cruelty  ! 

Have  pity  upon  me  ere  it  be  too  late! 
126 


"Happier  for  me  if  elsewhere  I  had  gone 

For  pity, — ah,  far  happier  for  me, 
Since  never  of- her  may  any  grace  be  won, 
And  lest  dishonor  slay  me,  I  must  flee. 
'  Haro !'  I  cry,  (and  cry  how  uselessly !): 
'Haro!'  I  cry  to  folk  of  all  estate, 

For  I  must  die  unless  it  chance  that  she 


Have  pity  upon  me  ere  it  be  too  late. 


"  A  time  draws  on  'neath  whose  disastrous  sun 
Your  beauty's  flower  must  fade  and  wane 

and  be 
No  longer  beautiful,  and  thereupon 

I  may  not  mock  at  you, — not  I,  for  we 
Shall  both  be  old  andvigorless; — m'amye, 
Drink  deep  of  love,  drink  deep,  and  do  not 

„•>  '<#&"' 
Until  love's  spring  run  dry.     Have  pity 

on  me! 
Have  pity  upon  me  ere  it  be  too  late! 


"Lord  Love,  that  all  love's  lordship  hast  in 

fee, 
Lighten,    ah,    lighten    thy    displeasure's 


(Ebe   Uiur    uf   Con* 


For    all    true    hearts    should,   of    Christ's 

charity, 
Have  pity  upon  me  ere  it  be  too  late." 

Then  from  above  a  voice  fluted  in  the 
twilight  —  a  high,  sweet,  delicate  voice : 
"  You  have  mistaken  the  window,  Monsieur 
de  Montcorbier.  Ysabeau  de  Montigny 
dwells  in  the  Rue  du  Fouarre." 

"  Ah,  cruel!"  sighed  Francois.  "  Will  you 
never  let  that  kite  hang  upon  the  wall?" 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  groan  like  a  bellows. 
Guillemette  Moreau  did  not  sup  here  for 
nothing.  I  know  of  the  verses  you  made 
her, — and  the  gloves  you  gave  her  at  Can- 
dlemas, too.  Saint  Anne!"  cried  the  voice, 
somewhat  sharply;  "she  needed  gloves. 
Her  hands  are  so  much  raw  beef.  And  the 
head-dress  at  Easter,  —  she  looks  like  the 
steeple  of  Saint  Benoit  in  it.  But  every 
man  to  his  taste,  Monsieur  de  Montcorbier. 
Good  -  night,  Monsieur  de  Montcorbier." 
But  for  all  that  the  window  did  not  close. 

"Catherine — !"   he   pleaded;   and   under 

his  breath  he   expressed   uncharitable  as- 

128 


pirations  as  to  the  future  of  Guillemette 
Moreau. 

"You  have  made  me  very  unhappy," 
said  the  voice,  with  a  little  sniff. 

"It  was  before  I  knew  you,  Catherine. 
The  stars  are  beautiful,  m'amye,  and  a  man 
may  reasonably  admire  them ;  but  the  stars 
vanish  and  are  forgotten  when  the  sun 
appears." 

"  Ysabeau  is  not  a  star,"  the  voice  point- 
ed out;  "she  is  simply  a  lank,  good-for- 
nothing,  slovenly  trollop." 

"Ah,  Catherine—!" 

"You  are  still  in  love  with  her." 

« /•»  j_i     •         i" 
"Catherine—! 

"Otherwise,  you  will  promise  me  for  the 
future  to  avoid  her  as  you  would  the  Black 
Death." 

"Catherine,  her  brother  is  my  friend. 
Catherine—!" 

"  Rene  de  Montigny  is,  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  entire  Rue  Saint  Jacques,  a  gambler 
and  a  drunkard  and,  in  all  likelihood,  a  thief. 
But  you  prefer  the  Montigny s  to  me,  it 
appears.  An  ill  cat  seeks  an  ill  rat.  Very 
129 


¥ 


heartily  do  I  wish  you  joy  of  them.  You 
will  not  promise  ?  Good-night,  then,  Mon- 
sieur de  Montcorbier." 

"Mother  of  God!     I  promise,  Catherine." 

From  above  Mademoiselle  de  Vaucelles 
gave  a  luxurious  sigh.  "Dear  Francois!" 
said  she. 

"You  are  a  tyrant,"  he  complained. 
"Madame  Penthesilea  was  not  more  cruel. 
Madame  Herodias  was  less  implacable,  I 
think.  And  I  think  that  neither  was  so 
beautiful." 

"I  love  you,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Vau- 
celles, promptly. 

"  But  there  was  never  any  one  so  many 
fathoms  deep  in  love  as  I.  Love  bandies 
me  from  the  postern  to  the  frying-pan, 
from  hot  to  cold.  Ah,  Catherine,  Catherine, 
have  pity  upon  my  folly !  Bid  me  fetch  you 
Prester  John's  beard,  and  I  will  do  it;  bid 
me  believe  the  sky  is  made  of  calf- skin,  that 
morning  is  evening,  that  a  fat  sow  is  a  wind- 
mill, and  I  will  do  it.  Only  love  me  a  little, 
dear." 

"My  king,  my  king!"  she  murmured. 
130 


»'v} 


WfieS 


"My  queen,  my  tyrant!  Ah,  what  eyes 
you  have!  Ah,  pitiless,  great,  sweet  eyes, 
— sapphires  that  in  the  old  days  might  have  a  o 


ransomed  every  monarch  in  Tamerlane's 
stable!  Even  in  the  night  I  see  them, 
Catherine." 

"Yet  Ysabeau's  eyes  are  brown." 

"Then  are  her  eyes  the  gutter's  color. 
But  Catherine's  eyes  are  twin  firmaments." 

And  about  them  the  acacias  rustled  lazily, 
and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  odors  of 
growing  things,  and  the  world,  drenched  in 
moonlight,  slumbered.  Without  was  Paris, 
but  old  Jehan's  garden  -  wall  cloistered 
Paradise. 

"  Has  the  world,  think  you,  known  lovers, 
long  dead  now,  that  were  once  as  happy  as 
we?" 


"  Love  was  not  known  till  we  discovered 


it.' 


"  I  am  so  happy,  Frangois,  that  I  fear 
death." 

"We  have  our  day.     Let  us  drink  deep 
of  love,  not  waiting  until  the  spring  run   ^, 
dry.    Catherine,  death   comes 


t£u 
>k 


yonder  in  the  church-yard  the  poor  dead  lie 
together,  huggermugger,  and  a  man  may  not 
tell  an  archbishop  from  a  rag-picker.  Yet 
they  have  exulted  in  their  youth,  and  have 
laughed  in  the  sun  with  some  candid  lass. 
We  have  our  day,  Catherine." 

"I  love  you!" 

"I  love  you!" 

So  they  prattled  in  the  moonlight.  Their 
discourse  was  no  more  overburdened  with 
wisdom  than  has  been  the  ordinary  com- 
muning of  lovers  since  Adam  first  awakened 
ribless.  Yet  they  were  content. 

Fate  grinned  and  went  on  with  her 
weaving. 


•V^fc 


'<.©" 


Ill 


lit: 


OMEWHAT  later  Francois 
came   down    the    deserted 
street,  treading  on  air.    It 
was  a  bland  Summer  night, 
windless,     moon  -  washed, 
odorous       with       garden  - 
scents;  the  moon,  nearing  its  full,  was  a 
silver  egg  set  on  end — ("Leda-hatched,"  he 
termed  it ;  "  one  may  look  for  the  advent  of 
Queen  Heleine  ere  dawn") ;  and  the  sky  he 
likened  to  blue  velvet  studded  with  the  gilt 
nail-heads  of  a  seraphic  upholsterer.    Fran- 
cois was  a  poet,  but  a  civic  poet;  then,  as 
always,  he  pilfered  his  similes  from   shop- 
windows. 

But  the  heart  of  Frangois  was  pure  mag- 
nanimity, the  heels  of  Frangois  mercury,  as 

9  133 


*•$*** 

&&. 
a 


L^^x 


he  tripped  past  the  church  of  Saint  Benoit- 
le-B6tourne,  stark  snow  and  ink  in  the 
moonlight.  Then  with  a  jerk  Francois 
paused. 

On  a  stone-bench  before  the  church  sat 
Ysabeau  de  Montigny  and  Gilles  Raguyer. 
The  priest  was  fuddled,  hiccuping  in  his 
amorous  dithyrambics  as  he  paddled  with 
the  girl's  hand.  "You  tempt  me  to  mur- 
der," he  was  saying.  "It  is  a  deadly  sin, 
my  soul,  and  I  have  no  mind  to  fry  in  Hell 
while  my  body  swings  on  the  Saint  Denis 
road,  a  crow's  dinner.  Let  Francois  live, 
my  soul!  My  soul,  he  would  stick  little 
Gilles  like  a  pig."  He  began  to  blubber  at 
the  thought. 

"Holy  Macaire!"  said  Francois;  "here  is 
a  pretty  plot  a-brewing."  Yet  because  his 
heart  was  filled  just  now  with  loving-kind- 
ness, he  forgave  the  girl.  "  Tantcsne  irce  ?" 
said  Francois ;  and  aloud :  "  Ysabeau,  it  is 
time  you  were  abed." 

She  wheeled  upon  him  in  apprehension; 
then,  with  recognition,  her  eyes  flamed. 
"Now,  Gilles!"  cried  Ysabeau  de  Montigny; 
134 


• 
V*  t 


-Q& 


"now,  coward!  He  is  unarmed,  Gilles. 
Look,  Gilles!  Kill  for  me  this  betrayer  of 
women!" 

Under  his  mantle  Frangois  loosened  the 
short  sword  he  carried.  But  the  priest 
plainly  had  no  mind  to  the  business.  He 
rose,  tipsily  fumbling  a  knife,  fear  in  his 
eyes,  snarling  like  a  cur  at  sight  of  a  strange 
mastiff.  "  Vile  rascal !"  said  Gilles  Raguyer, 
as  he  strove  to  lash  himself  into  a  rage.  "  O 
coward!  O  parricide!  O  Tarquin!" 

Frangois  began  to  laugh.  "Let  us  have 
done  with  this  farce,"  said  he.  "  Your  man 
has  no  stomach  for  battle,  Ysabeau.  And 
you  do  me  wrong,  my  lass,  to  call  me  a 
betrayer  of  women.  Doubtless,  the  tale 
served  well  enough  to  urge  Gilles  on ;  but  you 
and  I  and  God  know  that  naught  has  passed 
between  us  save  a  few  kisses  and  a  trinket 
or  so.  It  is  no  knifing  matter.  Yet  for  the 
sake  of  old  time,  come  home,  Ysabeau ;  your 
brother  is  my  friend,  and  the  hour  is  some- 
what late  for  honest  women  to  be  abroad." 

"Enne?"  shrilled  Ysabeau;  "and  yet,  if 
I  cannot  strike  a  spark  of  courage  from  this 


clod  here,  there  come  those  who  may  help 
me,  Frangois  de  Montcorbier.  'Ware  Ser- 
maise, Master  Francois!" 

Francois  wheeled.  Down  the  Rue  Saint 
Jacques  came  Philippe  Sermaise,  like  a 
questing  hound,  with  drunken  Jehan  le 
Merdi  at  his  heels.  "  Holy  Virgin !"  thought 
Frangois ;  "  this  is  likely  to  be  a  nasty  affair. 
I  would  give  a  deal  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
patrol  lanterns  just  now." 

He  edged  his  way  toward  the  cloister,  to 
get  a  wall  at  his  back.  But  Gilles  Raguyer 
followed  him,  knife  in  hand.  "O  hideous 
Tarquin!  O  Absalom!"  growled  Gilles; 
"have  you,  then,  no  respect  for  church- 
men?" 

With  an  oath,  Sermaise  ran  up.  "  Now, 
may  God  die  twice,"  he  panted,  "if  I  have 
not  found  the  skulker  at  last!  There  is  a 
certain  crow  needs  picking  between  us  two, 
Montcorbier." 

Hemmed  in  by  his  enemies,  Francois 
temporized.  "  Why  do  you  accost  me  thus 
angrily,  Master  Philippe?"  he  babbled. 
"What  harm  have  I  done  you?  What  is 
136 


I 

8 


fK0riar 


your  will  of  me?"  But  his  fingers  tore 
feverishly  at  the  strap  by  which  the  lute 
was  swung  over  his  shoulder,  and  presently 
it  fell  at  their  feet,  leaving  him  unhampered 
and  his  sword-arm  free. 

This  was  fuel  to  the  priest's  wrath. 
"Sacred  bones  of  Benoit!"  he  snarled;  "I 
could  make  a  near  guess  as  to  what  win- 
dow you  have  been  caterwauling  under." 
From  beneath  his  gown  he  suddenly  hauled 
out  a  rapier  and  struck  at  the  boy  while 
Francois  was  yet  tugging  at  his  sword. 

Full  in  the  mouth  he  struck  him,  splitting 
the  lower  lip  through.  Frangois  felt  the 
piercing  cold  of  the  steel,  the  tingling  of  it 
against  his  teeth,  then  the  warm  grateful 
spurt  of  blood;  through  a  red  mist,  he  saw 
Gilles  and  Ysabeau  run  screaming  down  the 
Rue  Saint  Jacques. 

He  drew  and  made  at  Sermaise,  forgetful 
of  le  Merdi.  It  was  shrewd  work.  Pres- 
ently they  were  fighting  in  the  moonlight, 
hammer-and-tongs,  as  the  saying  is,  and 
presently  Sermaise  was  cursing  like  a  mad- 
man, for  Frangois  had  wounded  him  in  the 
i37 

M£ 


'<£?- 


groin.  Window  after  window  rattled  open 
as  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques  ran  nightcapped 
to  peer  at  the  brawl.  Then  as  Franc. ois 
hurled  back  his  sword  to  slash  at  the  priest's 
shaven  head — Frenchmen  had  not  yet  learn- 
ed to  thrust  with  the  point  in  the  Italian 
manner — Jehan  le  Merdi  leapt  from  behind, 
nimble  as  a  snake,  and  wrested  away  the 
weapon.  Sermaise  closed  with  a  glad  shout. 

"  Heart  of  God !"  cried  Sermaise.  "  Pray, 
bridegroom,  pray!" 

But  Francois  jumped  backward,  tum- 
bling over  le  Merdi,  and  with  apish  celerity 
caught  up  a  great  stone  and  flung  it  full  in 
the  priest's  countenance. 

The  rest  was  hideous.  For  a  breathing 
space  Sermaise  kept  his  feet,  his  outspread 
arms  making  a  tottering  cross.  It  was 
curious  to  see  him  peer  about  irresolutely 
now  that  he  had  no  face.  Francois,  staring 
at  the  black  featureless  horror  before  him, 
began  to  choke.  Immediately  the  man's 
wrists  fell,  and  in  the  silence  his  rapier 
tinkled  on  the  flagstones  with  the  sound  of 
shattering  glass,  and  Philippe  Sermaise  slid 
138 


<2 


:.,«-v 


DP 


^fy 
nrtar 

down,  all  a-jumble,  crumpling  like  a  broken 
toy.  Afterward  you  might  have  heard  a 
long,  awed  sibilance  go  about  the  windows 
overhead  as  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques,  watch- 


ing, caught  its  breath  again. 

Francois  de  Montcorbier  ran.  He  tore  at 
his  breast  as  he  ran,  stifling.  He  wept  like 
a  beaten  child  as  he  ran  through  the  moon- 
washed  Rue  Saint  Jacques,  making  bestial 
whistling  noises.  His  split  lip  was  a 
clammy  dead  thing  that  flapped  against  his 
chin  as  he  ran. 

" Francois !"  a  man  cried,  meeting  him; 
"ah,  name  of  a  name,  Francois!" 

It  was  Rene  de  Montigny,  lurching  from 
the  Crowned  Ox,  half- tipsy.  He  caught  the 
boy  by  the  shoulder  and  hurried  him,  still 
sobbing,  to  Fouquet  the  barber-surgeon's, 
where  they  sewed  up  his  wound.  In  ac- 
cordance with  the  police  regulations,  they 
first  demanded  an  account  of  how  he  had 
received  it.  Ren6  lied  up-hill  and  down- 
dale,  while  in  a  corner  of  the  room  Francois 
monotonously  wept. 

Fate  grinned  and  went  on  with  her  weaving. 


IV 


3Fatrt 


[HE  Rue  Saint  Jacques  had 
.toothsome     sauce    for    its 
breakfast.        The     quarter 
smacked  stiff  lips  over  the 
news,  as  it  pictured  Fran- 
gois   de    Montcorbier    dan- 
gling from  Montfaucon.     "Horrible!"  said 
the  Rue  Saint  Jacques  and  deduced  a  moral 
for  the  edification  of  the  children. 

Guillemette  Moreau  had  told  Catherine 
of  the  affair  before  the  day  was  aired.  The 
girl's  hurt  vanity  flamed. 

"Sermaise!"  said  she.  "Bah,  what  do  I 
care  for  Sermaise!  He  killed  him  in  fair 
fight.  But  within  an  hour,  Guillemette,  — 
within  an  hour  after  leaving  me,  he  is  junk- 
eting on  church-porches  with  that  trollop. 
140 


^\ 

J«      /> 


They  were  not  there  for  holy- water.  Mid- 
night, look  you!  And  he  swore  to  me — 
chaff,  chaff !  His  honor  is  chaff,  Guillemette, 
and  his  heart  a  bran-bag.  O,  swine,  filthy 
swine !  Eh,  well,  let  the  swine  stick  to  his 
sty.  Send  Noel  d'Arnaye  to  me." 

The  Sieur  d'Arnaye  came,  his  head  tied 
in  a  napkin. 

"Foh!"  said  she;  "another  swine  fresh 
from  the  gutter  ?  No,  this  is  a  bottle,  a  tun, 
a  wine-barrel!  Noel,  I  despise  you.  I  will 
marry  you  if  you  like." 

He  fell  to  mumbling  her  hand.  An  hour 
later  she  told  Jehan  de  Vaucelles  she  intend- 
ed to  marry  Noel  the  Handsome  when  he 
should  come  back  from  Geneppe  with  the 
exiled  Dauphin.  The  old  man,  having  wis- 
dom, lifted  his  brows  and  returned  to  his 
reading. 

The  patrol  had  transported  Sermaise  to 
the  prison  of  Saint  Benoit,  where  he  lay  all 
night.  That  day  he  was  carried  to  the 
hospital  of  the  Hotel  Dieu.  He  died  the 
following  Saturday. 

Death  exalted  the  man  to  some  nobility. 
141 


1*5 

o: 


Before  one  of  the  apparitors  of  the  Chatelet 
he  exonerated  Montcorbier,  under  oath,  and 
asked  that  no  steps  be  taken  against  him. 
"I  forgive  him  my  death,"  he  said,  manly 
enough  at  the  last,  "by  reason  of  certain 
causes  moving  him  thereunto."  Presently 
he  demanded  the  glove  they  would  find  in 
the  pocket  of  his  gown.  It  was  Catherine's 
glove.  The  priest  kissed  it,  and  then  began 
to  laugh.  Shortly  afterward  he  died,  still 
gnawing  at  the  glove. 

Franc,  ois  and  Rene  had  vanished .  "  Good 
riddance,"  said  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques.  But 
Montcorbier  was  summoned  to  answer  be- 
fore the  court  of  the  Chatelet  for  the 
death  of  Philippe  Sermaise,  and  in  de- 
fault of  his  appearance,  was  subsequently 
condemned  to  banishment  from  the  king- 
dom. 

They  were  at  Saint  Pourgain-en-Bour- 
bonnais,  where  Rene"  had  kinsmen.  Under 
the  name  of  des  Loges,  Francois  had  there 
secured  a  place  as  tutor,  but  when  he  heard 
that  Sermaise  in  the  article  of  death  had 
cleared  him  of  all  blame,  he  set  about  pro- 
142 


<C" 


curing  a  pardon.*  It  was  January  before  he 
succeeded  in  obtaining  it. 

Meanwhile  he  had  learned  a  deal  of  Rene's 
way  of  living.  "You  are  a  thief,"  he  said 
to  him,  the  day  his  pardon  came,  "  but  you 
have  played  a  kindly  part  by  me.  I  think 
you  are  Dysmas,  Rene,  not  Gestas.  Heh,  I 
throw  no  stones.  You  have  stolen,  but  I 
have  killed.  Let  us  go  to  Paris,  lad,  and 
start  afresh." 

Montigny  grinned.  "  I  shall  certainly  go 
to  Paris,"  he  said.  "My  friends  wait  for 
me  there, — Guy  Tabary,  Petit  Jehan  and 
Colin  de  Cayeux.  We  are  planning  to 
visit  Guillaume  Coiffier,  a  fat  priest  with 
some  six  hundred  crowns  in  the  cupboard. 

—  1  V*3  "*  fWJ>  ^y*~f     J     J 

You  will  make  one  of  the  party,  Francois." 
"Rene,  Rene,"  said  he,  "my  heart  bleeds 

^r  ,*£7  i       ^^ 

for  you." 

Again   Montigny   grinned.     "You  think 

*  There  is  humor  in  his  deposition  that  Gilles  and 
Ysabeau  and  he  were  loitering  before  Saint  Benpit's 
in  friendly  discourse, — "  pour  soy,  esbatre."  Perhaps 
Ren6  prompted  this;  but  in  itself,  it  is  characteristic 
of  Montcorbier  that  he  trenched  on  perjury,  blithely, 
in  order  to  screen  Ysabeau. 

M3 


. 


Sin*   of 


a  great  deal  about  blood  nowadays,"  he 
commented.  "People  will  be  mistaking 
you  for  one  of  the  Nine  Worthies.  Alex- 
ander! will  you,  then,  stable  the  elephant 
you  took  from  Porus  in  the  Rue  Saint 
Jacques?  O,  my  dear  Macedonian,  let  us 
first  see  what  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques  has 
to  say  about  your  recent  gambols.  After 
that,  I  think  you  will  make  one  of  our 
party." 


HERE  was  a  light  crack- 
ling frost  under  foot  the  day 
that  Frangois  came  back 
to  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques. 
A  brisk,  clear  January  day. 
It  was  good  to  be  home 
again,  an  excellent  thing  to  be  alive. 

"  Eh,  Guillemette,  Guillemette,"  he  laugh- 
ed. "Why,  lass— !" 

"Faugh!"  said  Guillemette  Moreau,  as 
she  passed  him,  nose  in  air.  "  A  murderer, 
a  priest-killer." 

Then  the  sun  went  black  for  Francois.  It 
was  a  bucket  of  cold  water,  full  in  the  face. 
He  gasped,  staring  after  her;  and  pursy 
Thomas  Tricot,  on  his  way  from  mass, 
nudged  Martin  Blaru  in  the  ribs. 


Jr 


"Martin,"  said  he,  "fruit  must  be  cheap 
this  year.  Yonder  in  the  gutter  is  an  apple 
from  the  gallows-tree,  and  no  one  will  pick 
it  up." 

Blaru  turned  and  spat  out,  "Cain! 
Judas!" 


This  was  only  a  sample.  Everywhere 
Francois  found  rigid  faces  and  skirts  drawn 
aside.  A  little  girl  in  a  red  cap,  Robin 
Troussecaille's  daughter,  flung  a  stone  at 
him  as  he  slunk  into  the  cloister  of  Saint 
Benoit-le-Betourne".  In  those  days  a  slain 
priest  was  God's  servant  slain,  no  less. 

"My  father!"  he  cried,  rapping  upon  the 
door  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Porte-Rouge;  "O, 
my  father,  open  to  me,  for  I  think  that  my 
heart  is  breaking." 

Shortly  his  foster-father,  Guillaume  de 
Villon,  came  to  the  window.  "Murderer!" 
said  he.  "Betrayer  of  women!  Now,  by 
the  caldron  of  John!  how  dare  you  show 
your  face  here  ?  I  gave  you  my  name  and 
you  soiled  it.  Back  to  your  husks,  rascal!" 

"O  God,  O  God!"  Francois  cried,  one  or 
two  times,  as  he  looked  up  into  the  old  man's 
146 


Otf3 


implacable  countenance.  "You,  too,  my 
father!"  He  burst  into  a  fit  of  sobbing. 

"Go!"  the  priest  stormed;  "go,  mur- 
derer!" 

It  was  not  good  to  hear  Francois's  laugh- 
ter. "What  a  world  we  live  in!"  he  gig- 
gled. "You  gave  me  your  name  and  I 
soiled  it  ?  Eh,  Master  Priest,  Master  Phari- 
see, beware!  Villon  is  good  French  for 
vagabond,  an  excellent  name  for  an  out- 
cast. And  as  God  lives,  I  will  presently 
drag  that  name  through  every  muckheap 
in  France." 

Yet  he  went  to  Jehan  de  Vaucelles's 
home.  "  I  will  afford  God  one  more  chance 
at  my  soul,"  he  said. 

In  the  garden  he  met  Catherine  and  Noel 

•?      ''  /CO* 

d'Arnaye  coming  out  of  the  house.  They 
stopped  short.  Her  face,  half -muffled  in 
her  cloak,  flushed  to  a  wonderful  rose  of 
happiness,  the  great  eyes  glowed,  and 
Catherine  reached  out  her  hands  to  him 
with  a  glad  cry. 

His  heart  was  hot  wax  as  he  fell  upon  ^, 
his  knees  before  her.     "O  heart's  dearest, 

*S  l/.-^-~^3L^ 


heart's  dearest!"  he  sobbed;  "forgive  me 
that  I  doubted  you!" 

And  then  for  an  instant,  the  balance 
hung  level.  But  after  a  while,  "Ysabeau 
de  Montigny  dwells  in  the  Rue  du  Fouarre," 
said  she,  in  a  crisp  voice, — "having  served 
your  purpose,  however,  I  perceive  she  is 
to  be  cast  aside  as  though  she  were  an  old 
glove.  Monsieur  d'Arnaye,  thrash  for  me 
this  betrayer  of  women." 

Noel  was  a  big,  handsome  man,  like  an 
obtuse  demi-god,  a  foot  taller  than  Fran- 
cois. He  lifted  the  boy  by  his  collar,  caught 
up  a  stick  and  set  to  work.  Catherine 
watched  them,  her  eyes  gemlike,  cruel. 

Francois  did  not  move  a  muscle.  God 
had  chosen. 

After  a  little,  though,  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye 
flung  Franc,  ois  upon  the  ground,  where  he 
lay  quite  still  for  a  moment.  Then  slowly 
he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  never  looked  at  Noel. 
For  a  long  time  he  stared  at  Catherine  de 
Vaucelles,  frost-flushed,  defiant,  incredibly 
beautiful.  Afterward  he  went  out  of  the 
garden,  staggering  like  a  drunken  man. 
148 


fcift 


He  found  Montigny  at  the  Crowned  Ox. 
"Rene,"  said  he,  "there  is  no  charity  on 
earth,  there  is  no  God  in  Heaven.  But  in 
Hell  there  is  most  assuredly  a  devil,  and  I 
think  that  he  must  laugh  a  great  deal. 
What  was  that  you  were  telling  me  about 
the  priest  with  six  hundred  crowns  in  his 
cupboard?" 

Rene  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "you  talk  like  a  man." 
He  opened  the  door  at  the  back  and  cried: 
"Colin,  you  and  Petit  Jehan  and  that  pig 
Tabary  may  come  out.  I  have  the  honor, 
messieurs,  to  offer  you  a  new  Companion  of 
the  Cockleshell  —  Master  Francois  de  Mont- 
corbier." 

But  the  recruit  raised  a  protesting  hand. 
"No,"  said  he,—  "  Francois  Villon.  The 
name  is  triply  indisputable,  since  it  was 
given  me  not  by  one  priest  but  by  three." 


fc 


VI 


"TlmUt  l'£0tai  itora  fc'imto  luix" 

HEN  the  Dauphin  came 
from  Geneppe  to  be  crown- 
ed King  of  France,  there 
rode  with  him  Noel  d'Ar- 
naye  and  his  brother  Ray- 
mond. The  news  that 
Charles  the  Well-Served  was  now  servitor  to 
Death,  brought  the  exiled  Louis  post-haste 
to  Paris,  where  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques  turned 
out  full  force  to  witness  his  triumphal  en- 
try. They  expected  Saturnian  doings  of 
Louis  XI.  in  those  days,  a  recrudescence  of 
the  Golden  Age;  and  when  the  new  king 
began  his  reign  by  granting  Noel  a  snug 
fief  in  Picardy,  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques  ap- 
plauded. 

"  Noel  has  followed  his  fortunes  these  ten 


r tar 


years,"  said  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques;  "it  is 
only  just.  And  now,  neighbor,  we  may  look 
to  see  Noel  the  Handsome  and  Catherine  de 
Vaucelles  make  a  match  of  it.  The  girl  has 
a  tidy  dowry,  they  say;  old  Jehan  proved 
wealthier  than  the  quarter  suspected.  But 
death  of  my  life,  yes!  You  may  see  his 
tomb  in  the  Innocents'  yonder,  with  weep- 
ing seraphim  and  a  yard  of  Latin  on  it.  I 
warrant  you  that  rascal  Montcorbier  has 
lain  awake  in  half  the  prisons  in  France 
thinking  of  what  he  flung  away.  Seven 
years,  no  less,  since  he  and  Montigny  show- 
ed their  thieves'  faces  here.  La,  the  world 
wags,  neighbor,  and  they  say  there  will  be 
a  new  tax  on  salt  if  we  go  to  war  with  the 
English." 

Somewhat  to  this  effect,  also, 'ran  the 
meditations  of  Catherine  de  Vaucelles  one 
still  August  night  as  she  sat  at  her  window, 
overlooking  the  acacias  and  chestnuts  of  her 
garden.  Noel,  conspicuously  prosperous  in 
blue  and  silver,  had  but  now  gone  down  the 
Rue  Saint  Jacques,  singing,  clinking  the  fat 
purse  whose  plumpness  was  still  a  novelty. 


•@> 


ubr    iOtur    of 


That  evening  she  had  given  her  promise  to 
marry  him  at  Michaelmas. 

It  was  a  black  night,  moonless,  windless. 
There  were  a  scant  half-dozen  stars  over- 
head, and  the  thick  scent  of  roses  and  mign- 
onette came  up  to  her  in  hot,  stifling  waves. 
Below  the  tree -tops  conferred,  stealthily, 
and  the  fountain  plashed  its  eternal  remon- 
strance to  the  conspiracy  they  lisped  of. 

After  a  while  Catherine  rose  and  stood 
contemplative  before  a  long  mirror  that  was 
in  her  room.  Catherine  de  Vaucelles  was 
twenty-three  now,  in  the  full  flower  of  her 
beauty.  Blue  eyes  the  mirror  showed  her, 
— luminous  and  tranquil  eyes,  set  very 
far  apart;  honey-colored  hair  that  hung 
heavily  about  her  face,  a  mouth  all  curves, 
the  hue  of  a  strawberry,  tender  but  rather 
fretful,  and  beneath  it  a  firm  chin ;  only  her 
nose  left  something  to  be  desiderated, — for 
that  feature,  though  well-formed,  was  dimin- 
utive and  bent,  by  perhaps  the  thickness 
of  a  cobweb,  toward  the  left.  She  might 
reasonably  have  smiled  at  what  the  mirror 
showed  her,  but,  for  all  that,  she  sighed. 
152 


"  O  Beauty  of  her,  whereby  I  am  undone, 
said  Catherine,  wistfully ;  then  on  a  sudden 
she  burst  into  tearless  sobbing.  "  Ah,  God 
in  Heaven,  forgive  me  for  my  folly !  Sweet 
Christ,  intercede  for  me  who  have  paid  so 
dearly  for  my  folly!" 

Fate  grinned  in  her  weaving.  There 
stole  through  the  open  window  the  sound 
of  a  voice  singing  below. 

Sang  the  voice: 

"0  Beauty  of  her,  whereby  I  am  undone! 

O  Grace  of  her,  that  hath  no  grace  for  me  ! 
0  Love  of  her,  the  bit  that  guides  me  on 
To  sorrow  and  to  grievous  misery  I 
O  Beauty  of  her,  my  poor  heart's  enemy — " 

and  broke  off  in  a  fit  of  coughing. 

She  remained  motionless  for  a  matter  of 
two  minutes,  her  head  poised  alertly.  Then, 

A      v    »> 

with  a  gasp,  she  sprang  to  the  gong  and 
struck  it  seven  or  eight  times. 

"Macee,  there  is  a  man  in  the  garden. 
Bring  him  to  me,  Macee, — ah,  love  of  God, 
Mac6e,  make  haste!" 


u\a 


Blinking,  he  stood  upon  the  threshold. 
Then,  without  words,  their  lips  met. 

"My  king!"  said  Catherine;  "heart's 
emperor !" 

"  O  rose  of  all  the  world  !"  he  cried. 

There  was  very  little  need  of  speech. 

But  after  a  moment  she  drew  away  and 
stared  at  him.  Frangois,  though  he  was 
but  thirty,  seemed  an  old  man.  His  bald 
head  shone  in  the  candle-light.  His  face 
was  a  mesh  of  tiny  wrinkles,  wax-white, 
and  his  lower  lip,  puckered  by  the  scar  of 
his  wound,  protruded  in  an  eternal  grimace. 
As  Catherine  steadfastly  regarded  him,  the 
faded  eyes,  half  -  covered  with  blue  film, 
shifted,  and  with  a  jerk  he  glanced  over  his 
shoulder.  The  movement  started  a  cough 
tearing  at  his  throat. 

"Holy  Macaire!"  said  he.  "I  thought 
Henri  Cousin,  the  executioner,  was  at  my 
heels.  Why  do  you  stare  so,  lass  ?  Have  you 
anything  to  eat  ?  I  am  famished ,  Catherine . ' ' 

In  silence  she  brought  him  meat  and  wine, 
and  he  fell  upon  it  wolfishly.     He  ate  with 
his  front  teeth,  like  a  sheep. 
154 


¥  V 

p 


^^i-VVf 

<$^<SK<r^ 

nrfar 

When  he  had  ended,  Catherine  came  to 
him  and  took  both  his  hands  in  hers  and 
lifted  them  to  her  lips.  " God,  God,  God!" 
she  sobbed,  and  her  voice  was  the  flat  voice 
of  an  old  woman. 

Francois  pushed  her  away.  Then  he 
strode  to  the  mirror  and  regarded  it  intent- 
ly. With  a  snarl,  he  turned  about.  "  Yes, " 
said  he;  "you  killed  Frangois  de  Mont- 
corbier  as  surely  as  Montcorbier  killed  Ser- 
maise.  Eh,  Sovereign  Virgin !  that  is  scant 
cause  for  grief.  You  made  Franc, ois  Villon. 
What  do  you  think  of  him,  lass?" 

She  echoed  the  name.  It  was  in  many 
ways  a  seasoned  name,  but  one  unaccus- 
tomed to  disregard.  Accordingly  Franc, ois 
sneered. 

"Now,  by  all  the  fourteen  joys  and 
sorrows  of  Our  Lady!  I  believe  that  you 
have  never  heard  of  Francois  Villon!  The 
Rue  Saint  Jacques  has  not  heard  of  Francois 
Villon!  Pigs,  pigs,  that  dare  not  peep  out 
of  their  sty!  Why,  I  have  capped  verses 
with  the  Duke  of  Orleans.  The  very  street- 
boys  know  my  Ballad  of  the  Women  of 

if   Ik     ft    v^V^" 

'55 
j  j 


Inn?   of 


Paris.  Not  a  drunkard  in  the  realm  but 
rants  my  Orison  for  Master  Cotard's  Soul 
when  the  bottle  passes.  The  King  himself 
hauled  me  out  of  Meung  gaol  last  Septem- 
ber, swearing  that  in  all  France  there  was 
not  my  equal  at  a  ballad.  And  you  have 
never  heard  of  me!"  Once  more  a  fit  of 
coughing  choked  him  mid-course  in  his 
indignant  chatter. 

She  gave  him  a  woman's  answer:  "I  do 
not  care  if  you  are  the  greatest  lord  in  the 
kingdom  or  the  vilest  thief  that  steals 
ducks  from  Paris  Moat.  I  love  you,  Fran- 
gois." 

For  a  long  time  he  kept  silence,  blinking, 
peering  quizzically  at  her  lifted  face.  She 
loved  him  ;  no  questioning  that.  But  pres- 
ently he  put  her  aside  and  went  toward  the 
open  window.  This  was  a  matter  for  con- 
sideration. 

The  night  was  black  as  a  pocket.  Staring 
into  it,  Francois  threw  back  his  head  and 
drew  a  deep,  tremulous  breath.  The  rising 
odor  of  roses  and  mignonette,  keen  and 
intolerably  sweet,  had  roused  unforgotten 
156 


THE     KING     HIMSELF    HAULED     ME     OUT     OF     MEUNG     GAOL' 


iflnrtar 


pulses  in  his  blood,  had  set  shame  and  joy 
a-drum  in  his  breast. 

She  loved  him !  Through  all  these  years, 
with  a  woman's  unreasoning  fidelity  she 
had  loved  him.  He  knew  well  enough 
how  matters  stood  between  her  and  Noel 
d'Arnaye;  the  host  of  the  Crowned  Ox  had 
been  garrulous  that  evening.  But  it  was  he 
whom  she  loved.  She  was  rich.  Here  for 
the  asking  was  a  competence,  love,  an  ingle- 
side  of  his  own.  And  he  feared  to  ask. 

"Because  I  love  her.  Mother  of  God! 
has  there  been  in  my  life  a  day,  an  hour, 
a  moment  when  I  have  not  loved  her!  To 
see  her  once  was  all  that  I  had  craved, — as 
a  lost  soul  might  covet,  ere  the  Pit  take 
him,  one  splendid  glimpse  of  Heaven  and 
the  Nine  Blessed  Orders  at  their  fiddling. 
And  I  find  that  she  loves  me — me!  Fate 
must  have  her  jest,  I  perceive,  though  the 
firmament  crack  for  it.  She  would  have 
been  content  enough  with  Noel,  thinking 
me  dead.  And  with  me?"  Contemplative- 
ly he  spat  out  of  the  window.  "Eh,  if  I 
dared  hope  that  this  last  flicker  of  life  left 


m 


I 


in  my  crazy  carcass  might  burn  clear!  I 
have  but  a  little  while  to  live;  if  I  dared 
hope  that  I  might  live  that  little  cleanly! 
But  the  next  cup  of  wine,  the  next  light 
woman? — I  have  answered  more  difficult 
riddles.  Choose,  then,  Frangois  Villon,— 
choose  between  the  squalid,  foul  life  yonder 
and  her  well-being.  It  is  true  that  starva- 
tion is  unpleasant  and  that  hanging  is  re- 
ported to  be  even  less  agreeable.  But  just 
now  the  question  is  whether  it  be  of  greater 
import  that  you  be  saved  from  the  gibbet 
or  she  be  happy?" 

Staring  into  the  darkness  he  fought  the 
battle  out.  Squarely  he  faced  the  issue; 
for  that  instant  he  saw  Frangois  Villon  as 
the  last  seven  years  had  made  him,  saw  the 
wine-sodden  soul  of  Frangois  Villon,  rotten 
and  weak  and  honeycombed  with  vice.  Mo- 
ments of  nobility  it  had;  momentarily,  as 
now,  it  might  be  roused  to  finer  issues; 
but  he  knew  that  no  power  existent  could 
hearten  it  daily  to  curb  the  brutish  pas- 
sions. It  was  no  longer  possible  for  Fran- 
gois  Villon  to  live  cleanly.  "For  what  am 
158 


i^\ 


«4 


I  ? — a  hog  with  a  voice.  And  shall  I  haz- 
ard her  life's  happiness  to  get  me  a  more 
comfortable  sty  ?" 

He  turned  with  a  quick  gesture. 

"Listen,"  Francois  said.  "Yonder  is 
Paris, — laughing,  tragic  Paris,  who  once 
had  need  of  a  singer  to  proclaim  her  splendor 
and  all  her  misery.  Fate  made  the  man; 
in  necessity's  mortar  she  pounded  his  soul 
into  the  shape  Fate  needed.  To  king's 
courts  she  lifted  him ;  to  thieves'  hovels  she 
thrust  him  down;  Lutetia's  palaces  and 
abbeys  and  taverns  and  lupanars  and  gut- 
ters and  prisons  and  its  very  gallows — 
Fate  dragged  him  past  each  in  turn  that  he 
might  make  the  Song  of  Paris.  He  could 
not  have  made  it  here  in  the  smug  Rue 
Saint  Jacques.  Well!  the  song  is  made, 
Catherine.  So  long  as  Paris  endures, 
Franc. ois  Villon  will  not  be  forgot.  Villon 
the  singer  Fate  fashioned  to  her  liking ; 
Villon  the  man  she  has  damned  body  and 
soul.  And  by  God!  the  song  was  worth  ^/A 
it!" 

She  gave  a  startled  cry  and  ran  to  him, 


her    hands   fluttering   toward    his    breast. 
"Francois!"  she  breathed. 

It  was  not  good  to  kill  the  love  in  her 
face. 

"You  loved  Frangois  de  Montcorbier. 
Frangois  de  Montcorbier  is  dead.  The 
Pharisees  of  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques  killed 
him  seven  years  ago,  and  that  day  Fran- 
gois Villon  was  born.  That  was  the  name  I 
swore  to  drag  through  every  muckheap  in 
France.  I  have  done  it,  Catherine.  The 
Companions  of  the  Cockleshell — eh,  well, 
the  world  knows  us.  We  robbed  Guillamme 
Coiffier,  we  robbed  the  College  of  Navarre, 
we  robbed  the  Church  of  Saint  Maturin, — 
I  abridge  the  list  of  our  gambols.  Now  we 
harvest.  Rene  de  Montigny's  bones  swing 
in  the  wind  yonder  at  Montfaucon.  Colin 
de  Cayeux  they  broke  on  the  wheel.  The 
rest — in  effect,  I  am  the  only  one  that  jus- 
tice spared, — because  I  had  a  gift  of  rhym- 
ing, they  said.  Pigs!  if  they  only  knew!  I 
am  immortal,  lass.  Exegi  monumentum. 
Villon's  glory  and  Villon's  shame  will  never 
die." 

160 


vf. 


VILLON     THE     SINGER     FATE     FASHIONED     TO     HER     LIKING 


ilnrtar 


He  flung  back  his  head  and  laughed  harsh- 
ly, tittering  over  that  calamitous,  shabby  se- 
cret between  God  and  Francois  Villon.  She 
had  drawn  a  little  away  from  him.  She 
saw  him  exultant  in  infamy,  steeped  to  the 
hair  in  infamy.  But  still  the  nearness  of 
her,  the  faint  perfume  of  her,  shook  in  his 
veins,  and  still  he  must  play  the  miserable 
comedy  to  the  end,  since  the  prize  he  played 
for  was  her  happiness. 

"A  thief — a  common  thief!"  But  again 
her  hands  fluttered  back.  "I  drove  you 
to  it.  Mine  is  the  shame." 

"Holy  Macaire!  what  is  a  theft  or  two? 
Hunger  that  causes  the  wolf  to  sally  from 
the  wood,  may  well  make  a  man  do  worse 
than  steal.  I  could  tell  you — Ask  in  Hell 
of  one  Thevenin  Pensete,  who  knifed  him  in 
the  cemetery  of  Saint  John,"  he  hissed  at  her. 

He  hinted  a  lie,  for  it  was  Montigny  who 
killed  Thevenin  Pensete.  Villon  played 
without  scruple  now. 

Catherine's    face   went   white.     "Stop," 
she    pleaded;    "no    more,    Francois, — ah, 
Holy  Virgin!  do  not  tell  me  any  more." 
161 


'M. 


Kt. 


44 

n^ 


*\* 


Uotr* 


But  after  a  little  she  came  to  him,  touch- 
ing him  with  a  curious  aversion.  "  Mine  is 
the  shame.  It  was  my  jealousy,  my  vanity, 
Francois,  that  thrust  you  back  into  temp- 
tation. And  we  are  told  by  those  in  holy 
orders  that  the  compassion  of  God  is  infi- 
nite. If  you  still  care  for  me,  I  will  be 
your  wife." 

Yet  she  shuddered. 

He  saw  it.     His  face,  too,  was  paper. 

"He,  he,  he!"  Francois  laughed,  horribly. 
"If  I  still  love  you!  Go,  ask  of  Denise,  of 
Jacqueline,  of  Pierrette,  of  Marion  the 
Statue,  of  Jehanne  of  Brittany,  of  Blanche  _ 
Slippermaker,  of  Fat  Peg, — ask  of  any 
trollop  in  all  Paris  how  Francois  Villon 
loves.  You  thought  me  faithful!  You 
thought  that  I  preferred  you  to  any  painted 
light  o'  love!  Eh,  I  perceive  that  the 
credo  of  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques  is  somewhat 
narrow-minded.  For  my  part  I  find  one 
woman  much  the  same  as  another."  And 
his  voice  shook,  seeing  how  beautiful  she 
was,  seeing  how  she  suffered.  But  he 
managed  a  laugh. 

162 

,  fr^^^&t-^&fcz*^  rx 


"I  do  not  believe  you,"  Catherine  said, 
in  muffled  tones.  "Frangois!  You  loved 
me,  Francois.  Ah,  boy,  boy!"  she  cried, 
with  a  pitiable  lift  of  speech;  "come  back 
to  me,  O  boy  that  I  loved!" 

It  was  a  difficult  business.  But  he  grinned 
in  her  face. 

"He  is  dead.  Let  Francois  de  Mont- 
corbier  rest  in  his  grave.  Your  voice  is 
very  sweet,  Catherine,  and — and  he  could 
refuse  you  nothing,  could  he,  lass?  Ah, 
God,  God,  God!"  he  cried,  in  his  agony; 
"why  can  you  not  believe  me?  I  tell  you 
Necessity  pounds  us  in  her  mortar  to  what 
shape  she  will.  I  tell  you  that  Montcorbier 
loved  you,  but  Francois  Villon  prefers  Fat 
Peg.  An  ill  cat  seeks  an  ill  rat."  And  with 
this  a  sudden  tranquillity  fell  upon  his  soul, 
for  he  knew  that  he  had  won. 

Her  face  told  him  that.  Loathing.  He 
saw  it  there. 

"I  am  sorry,"  Catherine  said,  dully.     "I 

am   sorry.     O,    for   God's   sake!"   the   girl 

wailed,    on   a   sudden;   "go,    go!     Do   you 

want  money?     I  will  give  you  anything  if 

163 


you  will  only  go.  O,  you  beast!  O,  swine, 
swine,  swine!" 

He  turned  and  went,  staggering  like  a 
drunken  man. 

Once  in  the  garden  he  fell  prone  upon  his 
face  in  the  wet  grass.  About  him  the 
mingled  odor  of  roses  and  mignonette  was 
sweet  and  heavy;  the  fountain  plashed  in- 
terminably in  the  night,  and  above  him 
the  chestnuts  and  acacias  rustled  and  lisped 
as  they  had  done  seven  years  ago.  Only 
he  was  changed. 

"O  Mother  of  God,"  the  thief  prayed, 
"grant  that  Noel  may  be  kind  to  her! 
Mother  of  God,  grant  that  she  may  be 
happy!  Mother  of  God,  grant  that  I  may 
not  live  long!" 


\4 

K 


'.s  */  se  rencontre  icy  une  avanture  merveil- 
leuse,  c'est  que  le  fils  de  Grand  Turc  ressemble  a  Cleonte, 
a  peu  de  chose  pr£s  " 


71  "TO EL  D'ARNAYE  and  Catherine 
I  1  /  de  Vaucelles  were  married  in  the  Sep- 
-*-  »  tember  of  i 46 ']2,  and  afterward  withdrew 
to  Noel's  -fief  in  Picardy.  There  Noel  built 
him  a  new  Chateau  d'Arnayi,  and  through  the 
influence  of  Nicole  Beaupertuys,  the  King's 
mistress,  (who  was  rumored  in  court  by-ways 
to  have  a  tenderness  for  the  handsome  Noel), 
obtained  large  grants  for  its  maintenance. 
Catherine  died  in  1470,  and  Noel  survived  her 
three  years.  They  left  only  one  child,  a 
daughter,  Matthiette.  The  estate  and  title 
then  reverted  to  Raymond  d'Arnaye,  Noel's 
younger  brother,  from  whom  the  present 
family  of  Arnaye  is  descended. 

Raymond  was  a  far  shrewder  man  than 
his  predecessor.  For  ten  years'  space,  while 
Louis  XL,  that  royal  fox  of  France,  was  de- 
stroying feudalism  piecemeal — trimming  its 
power  day  by  day  as  you  might  pare  an  onion 
167 


V 


,1 


ZK 

^-*^L     VA 


— the  new  Sieur  d 'Arnaye  steered  his  shifty 
course  between  France  and  Burgundy,  al- 
ways to  the  betterment  of  his  chances  in  this 
world  however  he  may  have  modified  them 
in  the  next.  At  Arras  he  fought  beneath  the 
oriftamme ;  at  Guinegate  you  could  not  have 
found  a  stauncher  Burgundian :  though  he 
was  no  warrior,  victory  followed  him  like  a 
lap-dog.  So  that  presently  the  Sieur  d1  Ar- 
naye and  the  Vicomte  de  Puysange  —  with 
which  family  we  have  previously  concerned 
ourselves — were  the  great  lords  of  Northern 
France. 

But  after  the  old  King's  death  came  gusty 
times  for  Sieur  Raymond.  It  is  with  them 
we  have  here  to  do. 


(E0n0piranj  of  Arttag? 


uittlj 


^ND  so,"  said  the  Sieur 
d'Arnaye,  as  he  laid  down 
'the  letter,  "we  may  look 
'for  the  coming  of  Mon- 
,sieur  de  Puysange  to-mor- 
Irow." 

The  Demoiselle  Matthiette  contorted  her 
features  in  an  expression  of  disapproval. 
"So  soon!"  said  she.  "I  had  thought — " 

"Ouais,   my  dear  niece,   Love  rides  by 
ordinary  with  a  dripping  spur,  and  is  still 
as  arbitrary  as  in  the  day  when  Mars  was 
taken  with  a  net  and  amorous  Jove  bel- 
169 


lowed  in  Europa's  kail-yard.  My  faith!  if 
he  distemper  thus  the  spectral  ichor  of  the 
gods,  is  it  remarkable  that  the  warmer 
blood  of  man  pulses  rather  vehemently 
at  his  bidding?  It  were  the  least  of  his 
miracles  that  a  lusty  bridegroom  of  some 
twenty-and-odd  outstrip  the  dial  by  a  scant 
week.  For  love  —  I  might  tell  you  such 
tales—" 

Sieur  Raymond  crossed  his  white,  dim- 
pled hands  over  a  well-rounded  paunch 
and  chuckled  reminiscently ;  had  he  spoken 
doubtless  he  would  have  left  Master  Jehan 
de  Troyes  very  little  to  reveal  in  his  Scan- 
dalous Chronicle :  but  on  a  sudden,  remem- 
bering with  whom  he  conversed,  his  lean 
face  assumed  an  expression  of  placid  sanc- 
tity, and  the  somewhat  unholy  flame  died 
out  of  his  green  eyes.  He  resembled  noth- 
ing so  much  as  a  plethoric  cat  purring  over 
the  follies  of  kittenhood.  You  would  have 
taken  oath  that  a  cultured  taste  for  good 
living  was  the  chief  of  his  offences,  and  that 
this  benevolent  gentleman  had  some  sixty 
well-spent  years  to  his  credit.  True,  his 
170 


late  Majesty,  King  Louis  XI.,  had  sworn 
Pacque  Dieu!  that  d'Arnaye  conspired  with 
his  gardener  concerning  the  planting  of 
cabbages,  and  within  a  week  after  his 
death  would  head  a  cabal  against  Lucifer; 
but  kings  are  not  always  infallible,  as  his 
Majesty  himself  had  proven  at  PeYonne. 

" — for,"  said  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye,  "man's 
flesh  is  frail,  and  the  devil  is  very  cunning 
to  avail  himself  of  the  weaknesses  of  lovers." 

"Love!"  Matthiette  cried.  "Ah,  do  not  , 
mock  me,  my  uncle !  There  can  be  no  pre- 
tence of  love  between  Monsieur  de  Puysange 
and  me.  A  man  that  I  have  never  seen, 
that  is  to  wed  me  of  pure  policy  may  look 
for  no  Alcestis  in  his  wife." 

"You  speak  like  a  very  sensible  girl," 
said  Sieur  Raymond,  complacently.  "  How- 
ever, so  that  he  find  her  no  Guinevere  or 
Semiramis  or  other  loose-minded  trollop  of 
history,  I  dare  say  Monsieur  de  Puysange  || 
will  hold  to  his  bargain  with  indifferent 
content.  Look  you,  niece,  he  buys — the 
saying  is  somewhat  rustic — a  pig  in  a  poke 
as  well  as  you." 

171 


Uttt*  nf  SIntt* 


Matthiette  glanced  quickly  toward  the 
mirror  which  hung  in  her  apartment.  It 
reflected  features  which  went  to  make  up 
a  beauty  already  be-sonneted  in  that  part 
of  France;  and  if  her  green  gown  was  some 
months  behind  the  last  Italian  fashion,  it 
undeniably  clad  one  who  needed  few  ad- 
ventitious aids.  The  Demoiselle  Matthiette 
at  seventeen  was  very  tall  and  was  as  yet 
too  slender  for  perfection  of  form,  but  her 
honey-colored  hair  hung  heavily  about  the 
unblemished  oval  of  a  countenance  whose 
nose  alone  left  something  to  be  desired ;  for 
this  feature,  though  well  formed,  was  unduly 
diminutive.  For  the  rest,  her  mouth  curved 
in  an  irreproachable  bow,  her  complexion 
was  mingled  milk  and  roses,  her  blue  eyes 
brooded  in  a  provoking  calm;  taking  mat- 
ters by  and  large,  the  smile  that  followed 
her  inspection  of  the  mirror's  depths  was 
far  from  unwarranted.  Catherine  de  Vau- 
celles  re-animate,  you  would  have  sworn; 
and  at  the  abbey  of  Saint  Maixent-en-Poitou 
there  was  yet  a  certain  monk,  one  Brother 
Francois,  who  would  have  demonstrated 
172 


(EnttBpirarg  of  Arttag? 


it  to  you,  in  an  unanswerable  ballad,  that 
Catherine's  daughter  was  in  consequence  all 
that  an  empress  should  be  and  so  rarely 
is.  Harembourges  and  Bertha  Broad-foot 
and  white  Queen  Blanche?  he  would  have 
laughed  them  to  scorn,  demolished  them, 
proven  them,  in  comparison,  the  squalidest 
sluts  extant. 

But  Sieur  Raymond  merely  chuckled 
wheezily,  as  one  discovering  a  fault  in  his 
companion  of  which  he  disapproves  in 
theory,  but  in  practice  finds  flattering  to  his 
vanity. 

"  I  grant  you,  he  drives  a  good  bargain," 
said  Sieur  Raymond.  "Were  Cleopatra 
thus  featured,  the  Roman  lost  the  world 
very  worthily.  Yet,  such  is  the  fantastic 
disposition  of  man  that  I  do  not  doubt  he 
looks  forward  to  the  joys  of  to-morrow  with 
much  the  same  calm  self-restraint  that  you 
now  exercise ;  for  the  lad  is  young,  and,  as 
rumor  says,  has  been  guilty  of  divers  verses, 
— ay,  he  has  bearded  common-sense  in  the 
vext  periods  of  many  a  wailing  rhyme. 
I  will  wager  a  moderate  amount,  however, 
i73 


that  the  Vicomte,  like  a  sensible  young  man, 
keeps  these  whimsies  of  flames  and  dames 
laid  away  in  lavender  for  festivals  and  the 
like ;  they  are  somewhat  too  fine  for  every- 
day wear." 

He  sipped  the  sugared  wine  that  stood  be- 
side him.  "  Like  any  sensible  young  man," 
he  repeated,  in  a  meditative  fashion  that 
was  half  a  query. 

Matthiette  stirred  uneasily.  "Is  love, 
then,  nothing?"  she  murmured. 

"Love!"  Sieur  Raymond  barked  like  a 
kicked  dog.  "It  is  very  discreetly  fabled 
that  love  was  born  of  the  mists  at  Cythera. 
Thus,  look  you,  even  ballad-mongers  admit 
it  comes  of  a  short-lived  family,  that  fade 
as  time  wears  on.  I  may  have  a  passion  for 
fogs,  and,  doubtless,  the  morning  mists  are 
beautiful;  but  if  I  give  rein  to  my  ad- 
miration, breakfast  is  likely  to  grow  cold.  I 
deduce  that  mere  beauty,  as  represented  by 
the  sunrise,  is  less  worthy  of  consideration 
than  utility,  as  personified  by  the  frying- 
pan.  And  love!  A  niece  of  mine  prating 
of  love!"  The  idea  of  such  an  occurrence, 


\ 


fflottfijnrarg  of  Arttag* 


combined  with  a  fit  of  coughing  which  now 
came  upon  him,  drew  tears  to  the  Sieur 
d'Arnaye's  eyes.  "Pardon  me,"  said  he, 
when  he  had  recovered  his  breath,  "if  I 
speak  somewhat  brutally  to  maiden  ears." 

Matthiette  sighed.  "Indeed,"  said  she, 
"you  have  spoken  very  brutally!"  She 
rose  from  her  seat,  and  went  suddenly  to  the 
Sieur  d'Arnaye.  "Dear  uncle,"  said  she, 
with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  her  soft 
cheek  brushing  his  withered  countenance, 
"are  you  come  to  my  apartments  to-night 
to  tell  me  that  love  is  nothing, — you  who 
have  shown  me  that  even  the  roughest,  most 
grizzled  bear  in  all  the  world  has  a  heart 
compact  of  love  and  tender  as  a  woman's?" 

The  Sieur  d'Arnaye  snorted.  "  Her  mother 
all  over  again!"  he  complained;  and  then, 
recovering  himself,  shook  his  head  with  a 
hint  of  sadness. 

"  I  have  sighed  to  every  eyebrow  at  court, 
and  I  tell  you  this  moonshine  is — moonshine 
pure  and  simple.  Matthiette,  I  love  you  too 
dearly  to  deceive  you,  and  I  have  learned 
by  hard  knocks  that  we  of  gentle  quality 


may  not  lightly  follow  our  own  inclinations. 
Happiness  is  a  luxury  that  the  great  can 
very  rarely  afford.  Granted  that  you  have 
an  aversion  to  this  marriage.  Yet  consider 
this :  Arnaye  and  Puysange  united  may  sit 
snug  and  let  the  world  wag;  otherwise,  ly- 
ing here  between  the  Breton  and  the  Aus- 
trian, we  are  so  many  nuts  in  a  door-crack, 
at  the  next  wind's  mercy.  And  yonder  in 
the  South,  Orleans  and  Dunois  are  raising 
every  devil  in  Hell's  register!  Ah,  no,  ma 
mie;  I  put  it  to  you  fairly  is  it  of  greater 
import  that  a  girl  have  her  callow  heart's 
desire  than  that  a  province  go  free  of  Mon- 
sieur War  and  Madame  Rapine?"  Sieur 
Raymond  struck  his  hand  upon  the  table 
with  considerable  heat.  "  Everywhere  Death 
yawps  at  the  frontier ;  will  you,  a  d'Arnaye, 
bid  him  enter  and  surfeit  ?  An  alliance  with 
Puysange  alone  may  save  us.  Eheu,  it  is, 
doubtless,  pitiful  that  a  maid  may  not  wait 
and  wed  her  chosen  paladin,  but  our  vassals 
demand  these  sacrifices.  For  example,  do 
you  think  I  wedded  my  late  wife  in  any 
fervor  of  adoration?  I  had  never  seen  her 
176 


fflattHptrarg  nf  Arttag* 


before  our  marriage  day ;  yet  we  lived  much 
as  most  couples  do  for  some  ten  years  after- 
ward, thereby  demonstrating — 

He  smiled,  evilly;  Matthiette  sighed. 

"So,"  said  he,  "remember  that  Pierre 
must  have  his  bread  and  cheese;  that  the 
cows  must  calve  undisturbed ;  that  the  pigs 
—you  have  not  seen  the  sow  I  had  to-day 
from  Harfleur  ? — black  as  ebony  and  a  snout 
like  a  rose-leaf !— must  be  stied  in  comfort: 
and  that  these  things  may  not  be,  without 
an  alliance  with  Puysange.  Besides,  dear 
niece,  it  is  something  to  be  the  wife  of  a  great 
lord." 

A  certain  excitement  awoke  in  Mat- 
thiette's  eyes.  "  It  must  be  very  beautiful 
at  court,"  said  she,  softly.  "  Masques,  fetes, 
tourneys  every  day ; — and  they  say  the  new 
King  is  exceedingly  gallant — " 

Roughly  Sieur  Raymond  caught  her  by 
the  chin,  and  for  a  moment  turned  her 
face  toward  his.  "I  warn  you,"  said  he, 
hoarsely,  "  you  are  a  d'Arnaye;  and  King 
or  not — 

He  paused  here.  Through  the  open  win- 
177 


Cttt*   of  ICott* 


dow  came  the  voice  of  one  without,  singing 
to  the  demure  accompaniment  of  a  lute. 

"Hey?"  said  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye. 

Sang  the  voice: 

"When  you  are  very  old,  and  1  am  gone 

Out  of  your  life,  it  may  be  you  will  say  — 

Hearing  my  name  and  holding  me  as  one 

Long   dead  to  you  —  in  some  half-jesting 

way 
Of  speech,  sweet  as  vague   heraldings  of 

May 
Rumored  in  woods  when  first  the  throstles 

sing— 
He  loved  me  once.     And  straightway  mur- 

mtiring 

My  half  -for  gotten  rhymes,  you  will  regret 
The  vanished  day  when  I  was  wont  to  sing, 
Sweetheart,    my    sweet,    we    may    be 
happy  yet!" 

"  Now,  may  I  never  sit  among  the  saints," 
said  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye,  "  if  that  is  not  the 
voice  of  Raoul  de  Prison,  my  new  page." 

"Hush,"  Matthiette  whispered.  "He 
178 


(Eflttaptrarg  nf  Arnag? 


woos  my  maid,  Alys.     He  often  sings  under 
the  window,  and  I  wink  at  it." 
Sang  the  voice: 

"  I  shall  not  heed  you  then.     My  course  being 

run 

For  good  or  ill,  I  shall  have  passed  away, 

And  know  you,  love,  no  longer, — nor  the  sun, 

Perchance,  nor  any  light  of  earthly  day, 

Nor  any  joy  nor  sorrow, — while  for  aye 

The  world  speeds  on  its  course,  unreckoning 

Our  coming  or  our  going.     Lips  will  cling, 

Forswear,  and  be  forsaken,  and  men  forget 

Our  names  and  places,  and  our  children  sing, 

Sweetheart,    my    sweet,    we    may    be 

happy  yet! 


"//  in  the  grave  love  have  dominion 

Will  that  wild  cry  not  quicken  the  wise 

clay, 

Vexing  with   memories  of  some  deed   un- 
done, 

Some  joy  untasted,  some  lost  holiday, 
All   death's   large   wisdom?     Will   that    "^ 
wisdom 


Sin*   nf  Sort* 


The  ghost  of  any  sweet  familiar  thing 
Come  haggard  from  the  Past,  or  ever  bring 

Forgetfulness  of  those  two  lovers  met 
Within   the  Springtide?  —  nor   too   wise   to 

sing, 

Sweetheart,    my    sweet,    we    may    be 
happy  yet!" 


"  Yea,  though  the  years  of  vain  remember- 

ing 
Draw  nigh,  and  age  be  drear,  yet  in  the 

Spring 
We   meet    and    kiss.     Ah,    Lady   Mat- 

thiette, 

Dear  love,  there  is  yet  time  for  garnering! 
Sweetheart,  my  sweet,  we  may  be  happy 
yet!" 


"Dear,  dear!"  said  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye. 
"You  mentioned  your  maid's  name,  I 
think?" 

"Alys,"  said  Matthiette,  with  unwonted 
humbleness. 

Sieur  Raymond  spread  out  his  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  commiseration.  "  This  is  very 
180 


(ttuttaptrarg  of  Arttag? 


remarkable,"  he  said.     "  Beyond  doubt,  the 

gallant  beneath  has  made  some  unfortunate 
WyJ!r>    y>    '  ^rw 

error.     Captain  Gotiard,"  he  called,  loudly, 

"will  you  ascertain  who  it  is  that  warbles  in 
the  gardens?" 


nf  f nutJj 


>OTIARD  was  not  long  in 
'returning;  he  was  followed 
by  two  men-at-arms,  who 
held  between  them  the 
discomfited  minstrel.  Envy 
alone  could  have  described 
the  lutanist  as  ill-favored;  his  close-fitting 
garb,  wherein  the  brave  reds  of  Autumn 
were  judiciously  mingled,  at  once  set  off  a 
well  -  knit  form  and  enhanced  the  dark 
beauty  of  a  countenance  less  French  than 
Italian  in  cast.  The  young  man  stood 
silent  for  a  moment,  his  eyes  mutely  ques- 
tioning the  Sieur  d'Arnaye. 

"O,  la,  la,  la!"  chirped  Sieur  Raymond. 
"  Captain,  I  think  you  are  at  liberty  to  re- 
tire."    He   sipped   his   wine  meditatively, 
182 


,*J; 


(Ennajitrarg  of 


as  the  men  filed  out.  "  Monsieur  de  Prison,  '  ' 
he  resumed,  when  the  arras  had  fallen,  "  be- 
lieve me,  I  grieve  to  interrupt  your  very 
moving  and  most  excellently  phrased  ballad 
in  this  fashion.  But  the  hour  is  somewhat 
late  for  melody,  and  the  curiosity  of  old  age 
is  privileged.  May  one  inquire,  therefore, 
why  you  warble  my  nightingales  to  rest  with 
this  pleasing  but  —  if  I  may  venture  a  sug- 
gestion —  rather  ill-timed  madrigal?" 

The  young  man  hesitated  for  an  instant 
before  replying.  "Sir,"  said  he,  at  length, 
"  I  confess  that  had  I  known  of  your  where- 
abouts, the  birds  had  gone  without  their 
lullaby.  But  you  so  rarely  come  to  this 
wing  of  the  chateau,  that  your  presence 
here  to-night  is  naturally  unforeseen.  As 
it  is,  since  chance  has  betrayed  my  secret  to 
you,  I  must  make  bold  to  avow  it  —  it  is  that 
I  love  your  niece." 

"  Hey,  no  doubt  you  do,"  Sieur  Raymond 
assented,  pleasantly.  "Indeed,  I  think 
half  the  young  men  hereabout  are  in  much 
the  same  predicament.  But,  my  question, 
if  I  mistake  not,  related  to  your  reason 
183 


for  chaunting  canzonets  beneath  her  win- 
dow." 

Raoul  de  Prison  stared  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment. "  I  love  her,"  he  said. 

"You  mentioned  that  before,"  Sieur 
Raymond  suggested.  "And  I  agreed,  as 
I  remember,  that  it  was  more  than  probable ; 
for  my  niece  here — though  it  be  I  that  speak 
it — is  by  no  means  uncomely,  has  a  com- 
mendable voice,  the  walk  of  a  Hebe,  and 
sufficient  wit  to  deceive  her  lover  into  hap- 
piness. My  faith,  young  man,  you  show 
excellent  taste!  But,  I  submit,  the  purest 
affection  is  an  insufficient  excuse  for  out- 
baying  a  whole  kennel  of  hounds  beneath 
the  adored  one's  casement." 

"Sir,"  said  Raoul,  "I  believe  that  lovers 
have  rarely  been  remarkable  for  sanity ;  and 
it  has  been  an  immemorial  custom  among 
them  to  praise  the  object  of  their  desires 
with  fitting  rhymes.  Conceive,  sir,  that  in 
your  youth,  had  you  been  accorded  the 
love  of  so  fair  a  lady,  you  yourself  had 
scarcely  done  otherwise.  For  I  doubt  if 
your  blood  runs  so  thin  as  yet  that  you  have 
184 


^ 

fc^. 


(EottHptrarij  of  Arttage 


quite  forgot  young  Raymond  d'Arnaye  and 
the  gracious  ladies  that  he  loved, — I  think 
that  your  heart  must  needs  yet  treasure  the 
memories  of  divers  moonlit  nights,  even 
such  as  this,  when  there  was  a  great  silence 
in  the  world,  and  the  nested  trees  were  astir 
with  desire  of  the  dawn,  and  your  waking 
dreams  were  vext  with  the  singular  favor 
of  some  woman's  face.  It  is  in  the  name 
of  that  young  Raymond  I  now  appeal  to 
you." 

"H'm!"  said  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye.  "As  I 
understand  it,  you  appeal  on  the  ground 
that  you  were  coerced  by  the  trees  and  led 
astray  by  the  nightingales;  and  you  desire 
me  to  punish  your  accomplices  rather  than 
you." 

"Sir,—"  saidRaoul. 

Sieur  Raymond  snarled.  "You  young 
dog,  you  know  that  in  the  most  prosaic 
breast  a  minor  poet  survives  his  entomb- 
ment,— and  you  endeavor  to  make  capital 


e>xs 

0.4. 


of  the  knowledge.     You  know  that  I  have 

a  most   sincere   affection  for  your  father, 

and  have  even  contracted  a  liking  for  you, 

185 


r    as 


—  which  emboldens  you,  my  friend,  to 
keep  me  out  of  a  comfortable  bed  at  this 
hour  of  the  night  with  an  idiotic  discourse 
of  moonlight  and  nightingales !  As  it  hap- 
pens, I  am  not  a  lank  wench  in  her  first 
country  -  dance.  Remember  that,  Raoul 
de  Prison,  and  praise  the  good  God  who 
gave  me  at  birth  a  very  placable  disposition ! 
There  is  not  a  seigneur  in  all  France,  save 
me,  but  would  hang  you  at  the  crack  of 
that  same  dawn  for  which  your  lackadaisical 
trees  are  whining  outside;  but  the  quarrel 
will  soon  be  Monsieur  de  Puysange's,  and  I 
prefer  that  he  settle  it  at  his  own  discretion. 
I  content  myself  with  advising  you  to  pester 
my  niece  no  more." 

Raoul  spoke  boldly.  "She  loves  me," 
said  he,  standing  very  erect. 

Sieur  Raymond  glanced  at  Matthiette, 
who  sat  with  downcast  head.  "  H'm!"  said 
he.  "She  moderates  her  transports  indif- 
ferently well.  Though,  again,  why  not? 
You  are  not  an  ill-looking  lad.  Indeed, 
Monsieur  de  Prison,  I  am  quite  ready  to 
admit  that  my  niece  is  breaking  her  heart 
186 


(Eflttsptrarg  of 


for  you.  The  point  on  which  I  wish  to 
dwell  is  that  she  weds  Monsieur  de  Puysange 
early  to-morrow  morning." 

"Uncle,"  Matthiette  cried,  as  she  started 
to  her  feet,  "  such  a  marriage  is  a  crime!  I 
love  Raoul!" 

"Undoubtedly,"  purred  Sieur  Raymond, 
—  '  '  unboundedly,  madly,  distractedly  !  Now 
we  come  to  the  root  of  the  matter."  He 
sank  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled.  "  Young 
people,"  said  he,  "be  seated,  and  hearken 
to  the  words  of  wisdom.  Love  is  a  divine 
insanity,  in  which  the  sufferer  fancies  the 
world  mad.  And  the  world  is  made  up  of 
these  madmen,  who  condemn  and  punish 
one  another." 

"But,"  Matthiette  dissented,  "ours  is  no 
ordinary  case!" 

"Surely  not,"  Sieur  Raymond  readily 
agreed;  "for  there  was  never  an  ordinary 
case  in  all  the  history  of  the  universe.  I, 
too,  have  known  this  madness  ;  I,  too,  have 
perceived  how  infinitely  my  own  skirmishes 
with  the  blind  bow-god  differed  in  every 
respect  from  all  that  has  been  or  will  ever 
187 


be.  It  is  an  infallible  sign  of  this  frenzy. 
Surely,  I  have  said,  the  world  will  not  will- 
ingly forget  the  vision  of  Chloris  in  her 
wedding  -  garments,  or  the  wonder  of  her 
last  clinging  kiss.  Or,  say  Phyllis  comes 
to-morrow:  will  an  uninventive  sun  dare  to 
rise  in  the  old,  hackneyed  fashion  on  such 
a  day  of  days  ?  Perish  the  thought !  There 
will  probably  be  six  suns,  and,  I  dare  say,  a 
meteor  or  two." 

"I  perceive,  sir,"  Raoul  said  here,  "that 
after  all  you  have  not  forgot  the  young 
Raymond  whom  I  spoke  of." 

"That  was  a  long  while  ago,"  snapped 
Sieur  Raymond.  "  I  know  a  deal  more  of 
the  world  nowadays;  and  a  level-headed 
world  would  be  somewhat  surprised  at  such 
occurrences,  and  suggest  that  Phyllis  re- 
main at  home  for  the  future.  For  whether 
you — or  I — or  any  one — be  in  love  or  no  is 
to  our  fellow  creatures  an  affair  of  aston- 
ishingly trivial  import.  Not  since  Noe's, 
that  great  admiral's,  has  there  been  a  love- 
business  worthy  of  consideration;  nor,  if 
you  come  to  that,  not  since  sagacious  Solo- 
188 


mon  went  a  -  wenching  has  a  wise  man 
wasted  his  wisdom  on  a  lover.  So  love  one 
another,  my  children,  by  all  means :  but  do 
you,  Matthiette,  make  a  true  and  faithful 
wife  to  Monsieur  de  Puysange ;  and  do  you, 
Raoul  de  Prison,  remain  at  Arnaye,  and 
attend  to  my  falcons  more  carefully  than 
you  have  done  of  late, — or,  by  the  cross  of 
Saint  Lo!  I  will  clap  the  wench  in  a  con- 
vent and  hang  the  lad  as  high  as  Haman!" 
He  smiled  pleasantly,  and  drained  his  wine- 
cup  as  one  considering  the  discussion  ended. 

Raoul  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
rose  to  his  feet.  "Monsieur  d'Arnaye," 
said  he,  "  you  know  me  to  be  a  gentleman  of 
unblemished  descent,  and  as  such  entitled 
to  a  hearing.  I  forbid  you  before  all-seeing 
Heaven  to  wed  your  niece  to  a  man  she  does 
not  love !  And  I  have  the  honor  to  request 
of  you  her  hand  in  marriage." 

"Which  offer  I  decline,"  said  Sieur  Ray- 
mond, grinning  placidly,  —  "  with  every 
imaginable  civility.  Niece,"  he  continued, 
"  here  is  a  gentleman  who  offers  you  a  heart- 
ful  of  love,  six  months  of  insanity,  and  forty 
189 


B 


MIS 


*p* 


years  of  boredom  in  a  leaky,  wind-swept 
chateau.  He  has  dreamed  dreams  concern- 
ing you:  allow  me  to  present  to  you  the 
reality."  He  grasped  Matthiette's  hand 
and  led  her  mirror-ward.  "  Permit  me  to 
present  the  wife  of  Monsieur  de  Puysange. 
Could  he  have  made  a  worthier  choice  ?  Ah, 
happy  lord,  that  shall  so  soon  embrace  such 
perfect  loveliness !  Thrice  happy  lady,  that 
shall  so  soon  taste  every  joy  the  age  affords  I 
Frankly,  my  niece,  is  not  that  golden  hair 
of  a  shade  that  would  set  off  a  coronet 
extraordinarily  well  ?  Are  those  wondrous 
eyes  not  fashioned  to  surfeit  themselves 
upon  the  homage  and  respect  accorded  the 
wife  of  a  great  lord?  Ouais,  the  thing  is 
indisputable:  and,  therefore,  I  must  differ 
from  Monsieur  de  Prison  here,  who  would 
condemn  this  perfection  to  bloom  and  bud 
unnoticed  in  a  paltry  country  town." 

There  was  an  interval,  during  which 
Matthiette  gazed  sadly  into  the  mirror. 
"And  Arnaye — ?"  said  she. 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  Sieur  Raymond, — 
"  Arnaye  must  perish  unless  Puysange  prove 
190 


TM 


her  friend.  Therefore,  my  niece  conquers 
her  natural  aversion  to  a  young  and  wealthy 
husband,  and  a  life  of  comfort  and  flattery 
and  gayety;  relinquishes  you,  Raoul;  and, 
like  a  feminine  Mettius  Curtius,  sacrifices 
herself  to  her  country's  welfare.  Pierre 
may  sleep  undisturbed;  and  the  pigs  will 
have  a  new  sty.  My  faith,  it  is  quite  af- 
fecting! 

"And  so,"  he  continued,  "you  young 
fools  may  bid  adieu,  once  for  all,  while  I 
contemplate  this  tapestry."  He  strolled 
to  the  end  of  the  room  and  turned  his  back. 
"Admirable!"  said  he;  "really  now,  that 
leopard  is  astonishingly  lifelike!" 

Raoul  came  toward  her.  "Dear  love," 
said  he,  "you  have  chosen  wisely,  and  I  bow 
to  your  decision.  Farewell,  Matthiette,— 
O  indomitable  heart!  O  brave,  perfect 
woman  that  I  have  loved !  Now  at  the  last 
of  all,  I  praise  you  for  your  charity  to  me, 
Love's  mendicant, — ah,  believe  me,  Matthi- 
ette, that  atones  for  aught  which  follows 
now.  Come  what  may,  I  shall  always  re- 
member that  once  in  old  days  you  loved  me, 
191 


2I0tt* 


and,  remembering  that,  thank  God  with  a 
contented  heart."  He  bowed  over  her  un- 
responsive hand.  "Matthiette,"  he  whis- 
pered, "be  happy!  For  I  desire  that  very 
heartily,  and  I  beseech  of  our  Sovereign 
Lady  —  though  I  confess  without  shame  that 
there  are  tears  even  now  in  my  eyes  —  that 
you  may  never  know  unhappiness.  You 
have  chosen  wisely,  Matthiette  ;  but  ah,  my 
dear,  do  not  forget  me  utterly,  —  keep  a 
little  place  in  your  heart  for  your  boy 
lover!" 

Sieur  Raymond  concluded  his  inspection  of 
the  tapestry,  and  turned  with  a  premonitory 
cough.  "Thus  ends  the  comedy,"  said  he, 
shrugging,  "and  the  world  triumphs.  In- 
variably the  world  triumphs,  my  children. 
Eheu,  we  are  as  God  made  us,  we  men  and 
women  that  cumber  His  stately  earth!" 
He  drew  his  arm  through  Raoul's.  "  Fare- 
well, niece,"  said  he,  smiling;  "  I  rejoice  that 
you  are  cured  of  your  malady.  Now  in  re- 
spect to  gerfalcons  —  "  said  he. 

The  arras  fell  behind  them. 


r- 

m 


Ill 
(§h&itrat* 


ATTHIETTE  sat  brooding 
in  her  room,  as  the  night 
wore  on.  She  was  pitifully 
frightened,  numb  in  her 
misery.  There  was  a  heavy 
silence  in  the  room,  she 
dimly  noted,  that  her  sobs  had  no  power  to 
shatter.  Dimly,  too,  she  seemed  aware  of 
a  multitude  of  wide,  incurious  eyes  that 
watched  her  from  every  corner,  where  pan- 
els snapped  at  times  with  sharp  echoes. 
The  night  was  wellnigh  done  when  she 
arose. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  wearily,  "it  is  my 
manifest  duty."  Matthiette  crept  to  the 
mirror  and  studied  it. 

"Madame  de  Puysange,"  said  she,  with- 


%*\m 


out  any  intonation;  then  threw  her  arms 
above  her  head,  with  a  hard  gesture  of  de- 
spair. "  I  love  him!"  she  cried,  in  a  fright- 
ened voice. 

Matthiette  went  hurriedly  to  a  great  chest 
and  fumbled  among  its  contents.  Present- 
ly she  drew  out  a  dagger  in  a  leather  case, 
and  unsheathed  it.  The  light  shone  evilly 
scintillant  upon  the  blade.  She  laughed, 
and  hid  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  gown,  and 
fastened  a  cloak  about  her  with  impatient 
fingers.  Then  Matthiette  crept  down  the 
winding  stair  that  led  to  the  gardens,  and 
unlocked  the  door  at  the  foot  of  it. 

A  sudden  rush  of  night  swept  toward  her, 
big  with  the  secrecy  of  dawn.  The  sky, 
washed  clean  of  stars,  sprawled  above, — a 
leaden,  monotonous  blank.  Many  trees 
whispered  thickly  over  the  chaos  of  earth; 
to  the  left  a  field  of  growing  maize  bristled 
in  the  uncertain  dove-colored  twilight  like 
the  chin  of  an  unshaven  Titan.  Matthiette 
rustled  into  the  silence. 

She  entered  an  expectant  world.  Once 
in  the  tree-chequered  gardens,  it  was  as 
194 


OUttjsjnrarg  of  Arttag* 


though  she  crept  through  the  aisles  of  an  un- 
lit cathedral  already  garnished  for  its  sacred 
pageant.  Matthiette  heard  the  querulous 
birds  call  sleepily  above ;  the  margin  of  night 
was  thick  with  their  petulant  complaints; 
behind  her  was  the  monstrous  shadow  of  the 
Chateau  d'Arnaye,  and  past  that  a  sullen  red, 
the  red  of  bruised  flesh,  that  hinted  dawn. 
Infinity  waited  a-tiptoe,  tense  for  the  com- 
ing miracle,  and  against  this  vast  repression, 
her  grief  dwindled  into  irrelevancy:  the 
leaves  whispered  comfort;  each  tree-bole 
hid  chuckling  fauns.  Matthiette  laughed. 
Content  had  flooded  the  universe  all  through 
and  through  now  that  yonder,  unseen  as 
yet,  the  red-faced  sun  was  toiling  up  the  rim 
of  the  world. 

Matthiette  came  to  a  hut,  from  whose 
open  window  a  faded  golden  glow  spread 
out  into  obscurity  like  a  tawdry  fan.  From 
without  she  peered  into  the  hut  and  saw 
Raoul.  A  lamp  flickered  upon  the  table. 
His  shadow  twitched  and  wavered  about 
the  plastered  walls, — a  portentous  mass  of 
head  upon  a  hemisphere  of  shoulders, — 

Tr>- 

J95 

I   /  &/**-**  ^  w.  **.  .-.      «i  ^r»>«  _^«W»W-          .*  fS«  •*..      «.  ^  ^m  \£** 


She   lOinr    uf 


as  he  bent  over  a  chest,  sorting  the  contents, 
singing  softly  to  himself,  while  Matthiette 
leaned  upon  the  sill  without,  and  the  gar- 
dens of  Arnaye  took  form  and  stirred  in 
the  heart  of  a  chill,  steady,  sapphire  -  like 
radiance. 
Sang  Raoul: 

"Lord,  I  have  worshipped  thee  ever, — 

Through  all  of  these  years 
I  have  served  thee,  forsaking  never 

Light  Love  that  veers 

As  a  boy  between  laughter  and  tears. 
Hast  thou  no  more  to  afford, — 

Naught  save  laughter  and  tears, — 
Love,  my  lord  ? 

"/  have  borne  thy  heaviest  burden, 

Nor  served  thee  amiss: 
Now  thou  hast  given  a  guerdon; 
Lo,  it  is  this — 
A  sigh,  a  shudder,  a  kiss. 
Hast  thou  no  more  to  accord  ? 

I  would  have  more  than  this, 
Love,  my  lord. 

196 


"7  am  wearied  of  love  that  is  pastime 

And  gifts  that  it  brings; 
I  pray  thee,  O  lord,  at  this  last  time 

Ineffable  things. 

Ah,  have  the  long-dead  kings 
Stricken  no  subtler  chord, 

Whereof  the  memory  clings, 
Love,  my  lord  ? 

"But  for  a  little  we  live; 

Show  me  thine  innermost  hoard! 
Hast  thou  no  more  to  give, 
Love,  my  lord  ?" 


IV 


ATTHIETTE  crept  to  the 
door  of  the  hut;  her  hands 
fell  irresolutely  upon  the 
rough  surface  of  it  and  lay 
still  for  a  moment.  Then 
with  a  hoarse  groan  the  door 
swung  inward,  and  the  light  guttered  in  a 
swirl  of  keen  morning  air,  casting  convul- 
sive shadows  upon  her  lifted  countenance, 
and  was  extinguished.  She  held  out  her 
arms  in  a  gesture  that  was  half  maternal. 
"Raoul!"  she  murmured. 

He  turned  toward  her.  A  sudden  bird 
plunged  through  the  twilight  without  with 
a  glad  cry  that  pierced  like  a  knife  through 
the  stillness  that  had  fallen  in  the  little 
room.  Raoul  de  Prison  faced  her  with 
198 


(EattBjiirartr  of  Arttag* 


clinched   hands,    silent.     For  that   instant 
she  saw  him  transfigured. 

But  his  silence  frightened  her.  There 
came  a  piteous  catch  in  her  voice.  "  Fair 
friend,  have  you  not  bidden  me — be  happy?" 

Then  for  a  moment  his  hands  wavered 
toward  her.  Presently,  "Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  dully,  "  I  may  not  avail  myself  of  your 
tenderness  of  heart ;  that  you  have  come  to 
comfort  me  in  my  sorrow  is  a  deed  at  which, 
I  think,  God's  holy  Angels  must  rejoice:  but 
I  cannot  avail  myself  thereof." 

"Raoul,  Raoul,"  she  said,  "do  you  think 
that  I  have  come  in — pity!" 

"Matthiette,"  he  returned,  "your  uncle 
spoke  the  truth.  I  have  dreamed  dreams 
concerning  you, — dreams  of  a  foolish,  gold- 
en-hearted girl,  who  would  yield  —  yield 
gladly — all  that  the  world  may  give,  to  be 
one  flesh  and  soul  with  me.  But  I  have 
wakened,  dear,  to  the  braver  reality, — that 
valorous  woman,  strong  enough  to  conquer 
even  her  own  heart  that  her  people  may  be 
freed  from  their  peril.  I  must  worship  you 
now,  for  I  dare  no  longer  love." 
199 


"Blind!  blind!"  she  cried. 

Raoul  smiled  down  upon  her.  "Mad- 
emoiselle," said  he,  "I  do  not  doubt  that 
you  love  me." 

She  went  wearily  toward  the  window. 
"  I  am  not  very  wise,"  Matthiette  said,  in  a 
tuneless  voice,  looking  out  upon  the  gar- 
dens, "and  it  appears  that  God  has  given 
me  an  exceedingly  tangled  matter  to  un- 
ravel. Yet  if  I  decide  it  wrongly  I  think 
that  the  Eternal  Father  will  understand  it 
is  because  I  am  not  very  wise." 

Matthiette  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then 
with  averted  face  she  spoke  again.  "My 
uncle  bids  me  with  many  astute  saws  and 
pithy  sayings  to  wed  Monsieur  de  Puysange. 
I  have  not  skill  to  combat  him.  Many 
times  he  has  proven  it  my  duty,  but  he  is 
quick  in  argument  and  proves  what  he  will ; 
and  I  do  not  think  it  is  my  duty.  It  ap- 
pears to  me  a  matter  wherein  man's  wisdom 
is  at  variance  with  God's  will  as  manifested 
to  us  through  the  holy  Evangelists.  Assur- 
edly, if  I  do  not  wed  Monsieur  de  Puysange 
there  may  be  war  here  in  our  Arnaye,  and 

200 


of  Arttag? 


God  has  forbidden  war;  but  I  may  not  in- 
sure peace  in  Arnaye  without  prostituting 
my  body  to  a  man  I  do  not  love  and  that, 
too,  God  has  forbidden.  I  speak  somewhat 
grossly  for  a  maid,  but  you  love  me,  I  think, 
and  will  understand.  And  I,  also,  love  you, 
Monsieur  de  Prison.  Yet — ah,  I  am  pitiably 
weak!  Love  tugs  at  my  heart-strings,  bid- 
ding me  cling  to  you,  and  forget  these  other 
matters;  but  I  cannot  that,  either.  For  I 
desire  very  heartily  the  comfort  and  splen- 
dor and  adulation  which  you  cannot  give 
me.  I  am  pitiably  weak,  Raoul!  I  cannot 
come  to  you  with  an  undivided  heart, — 
but  my  heart,  such  as  it  is,  I  have  given 
you,  and  to-day  I  deliver  my  honor  into  your 
hands  to  preserve  or  trample  under  foot,  as 
you  elect.  Mother  of  Christ,  grant  that  I 
have  chosen  rightly,  for  I  have  chosen  now, 
past  retreat!  I  have  come  to  you,  Raoul; 
and  I  will  never  leave  you  until  you  bid  me 
do  so." 

Matthiette  turned  from  the  window. 
Now,  her  bright  audacity  gone,  her  ardors 
chilled,  you  saw  how  like  a  grave,  straight- 

201 

%Cc?.j£2!UL&^:n  '.:*.«*« 


Sou* 


forward  boy  she  was,  how  inimitably  tender, 
how  inefficient.  "It  may  be  that  I  have 
decided  wrongly  in  this  tangled  matter," 
she  said,  very  quiet.  "  And  yet  I  think  that 
God,  Who  loves  us  infinitely,  cannot  be 
greatly  vexed  at  anything  His  children  do 
for  love  of  one  another." 

He  came  toward  her.  "  I  bid  you  go,"  he 
said.  "Matthiette,  it  is  my  duty  to  bid 
you  go,  and  it  is  your  duty  to  obey." 

She  smiled  wistfully  through  unshed  tears. 
"Man's  wisdom!"  said  Matthiette.  "I 
think  that  it  is  not  my  duty.  And  so  I 
disobey, —  this  once,  and  no  more  here- 
after." 

"And  yet  last  night — "  Raoul  began. 

"  Last  night,"  said  she,  "  I  thought  that  I 
was  strong.  I  know  now  it  was  my  vanity 
that  was  strong, — vanity  and  pride  and  fear, 
Raoul,  that  for  a  little  mastered  me.  But 
in  the  dawn  all  things  seem  very  trivial, 
saving  love  alone." 

They  looked  out  into  the  dew-washed 
gardens.  The  day  was  growing  strong,  and 
already  clear-cut  forms  were  passing  be- 

202 


I/T* 
' 


neath  the  swaying  branches.     In  the  dis- 
tance a  trumpet  snarled. 

"Dear  love,"  said  Raoul,  "do  you  not 
understand  that  you  have  brought  about 
my  death?  For  Monsieur  de  Puysange  is 
at  the  gates  of  Arnaye;  and  he  or  Sieur 
Raymond  will  hang  me  ere  noon." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  in  a  tired  voice. 
"  I  think  that  Monsieur  de  Puysange  has 
some  cause  to  thank  me;  and  my  uncle 
loves  me,  and  his  heart,  for  all  his  gruff  ness, 
is  very  tender.  And — see,  Raoul!"  She 
drew  the  dagger  from  her  bosom.  "  I  shall 
not  survive  youlong,  O  man  of  all  the  world !" 

Perplexed  joy  flushed  through  his  coun- 
tenance. "You  will  do  this — for  me?"  he 
cried,  with  a  sort  of  sob.  "Matthiette, 
Matthiette,  you  shame  me!" 

"But  I  love  you,"  said  Matthiette. 
"  How  could  it  be  possible,  then,  for  me  to 
live  after  you  were  dead?" 

He  bent  over  her  drawrn  face,  that  turned 
quickly  from  his  lips. 

"Not  here,"  she  said, — "before  all  men, 
if  they  try  to  take  you  from  me." 
203 


ft 


Hand  in  hand  they  went  forth  into  the 
daylight.  The  kindly,  familiar  place  seem- 
ed in  Matthiette's  eyes  oppressed  and  trans- 
formed by  the  austerity  of  dawn.  It  was  a 
clear  Sunday  morning,  at  the  hightide  of 
Summer,  and  she  found  the  world  unutter- 
ably Sabbatical ;  only  by  a  vigorous  effort 
could  memory  connect  it  with  the  normal 
life  of  yesterday.  The  cool  recesses  of 
the  woods,  vibrant  now  with  multitudinous 
shrill  pipings,  the  purple  shadows  shrinking 
eastward  on  the  dimpling  lawns,  the  intricate 
and  broken  traceries  of  the  dial  (where  they 
had  met  so  often) ,  the  blurred  windings  of 
their  path,  above  which  brooded  the  peaked- 
roofs  and  gables  and  slender  clerestories  of 
Arnaye,  the  broad  river  yonder  lapsing 
through  deserted  sunlit  fields, — these  things 
lay  before  them  scarce  heeded,  stript  of  all 
perspective,  flat  as  an  open  scroll.  To  them 
all  this  was  alien.  She  and  Raoul  were 
quite  apart  from  these  matters,  quite  alone, 
despite  the  men  of  Arnaye,  hurrying  toward 
the  court-yard,  who  stared  at  them  curi- 
ously, and  muttered  in  their  beards.  A 
204 


brisk  wind  was  abroad  in  the  tree -tops, 
scattering  apple  -  blossoms  over  the  lush 
grass.  Tenderly  Raoul  brushed  a  clinging 
petal  from  the  gold  of  Matthiette 's  hair. 

" Before  all  men?"  Raoul  said. 

"Before  God  Himself,"  said  Matthiette. 
"  Before  God  Himself,  my  husband." 

They  came  into  the  crowded  court-yard 
as  the  drawbridge  fell.  A  troop  of  horse 
clattered  into  Arnaye,  and  the  leader,  a 
young  man  of  frank  countenance,  dismount- 
ed and  looked  inquiringly  about  him.  Then 
he  came  toward  them. 

"Monseigneur,"  said  he,  "you  see  that 
we  ride  early  in  honor  of  your  nuptials." 

Some  one  chuckled  wheezily  behind  them. 
"Love  one  another,  young  people,"  said 
Sieur  Raymond;  "but  do  you,  Matthiette, 
make  a  true  and  faithful  wife  to  Monsieur 
de  Puysange." 

She  stared  into  Raoul's  laughing  face; 
there  was  a  kind  of  anguish  in  her  swift 
comprehension.  Quickly  the  two  men  who 
loved  her  glanced  at  one  another,  half  in 
shame. 

205 


ft 

*g# 


5k? 


&£ 


Kf. 


titot 


ZIttu   of 


But  the  Sieur  d'Arnaye  was  not  lightly 
dashed.  "O,  la,  la,  la!"  chuckled  the  Sieur 
d'Arnaye,  "she  would  never  have  given 
you  a  second  thought,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte, 
had  I  not  labelled  you  forbidden  fruit.  As 
it  is,  my  last  conspiracy,  while  a  little  ruth- 
less, I  grant  you,  turns  out  admirably.  Jack 
has  his  Jill,  and  all  ends  merrily,  like  an  old 
song.  I  will  begin  on  those  pig  -sties  the 
first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 


Yl 
OCTOBER    6,    1519 

"  Therefore,  like  as  May  month  flowereth  and  flour- 
isheth  in  many  gardens,  so  in  likewise  let  every  man  of 
worship  flourish  his  heart  in  this  world;  first  unto  God, 
and  next  unto  the  joy  of  them  that  he  promiseth  his  faith 
unto  " 


*J 


^  V?  ^^ 

% 

^r 


quondam  Raoulde  Prison  stood 
high  in  the  graces  of  the  Lady  Regent 
of  Prance,  Anne  de  Beaujeu,  who  was, 
indeed,  tolerably  notorious  for  her  partiality 
to  handsome  men.  You  will  find  some  cu- 
rious evidence  on  this  point  in  the  case  of 
Jacques  de  Beaune,  afterward  baron  of  Sem- 
blancay,  as  detailed  by  Monsieur  Honore  de 
Balzac.  I  dare  affirm,  however,  that  Raoul 
came  to  preferment  through  quite  another  en- 
trance; in  any  event  when  in  1485  the  daugh- 
ter of  Louis  XI.  fitted  out  an  expedition  to 
press  the  Earl  of  Richmond's  claim  to  the 
English  crown,  de  Puysange  sailed  from 
Havre  as  commander  of  the  French  -fleet.  He 
fought  at  Bosworth,  not  discreditably,  and  a 
year  afterward,  when  England  had  for  the 
most  part  accepted  Henry  VII.,  Matthiette 
rejoined  him. 

They  never  subsequently  quitted  England. 
209 


C(. 


During  the  long  internecine  wars  when  the 
island  was  convulsed  by  the  pretensions  of 
Per  kin  War  beck,  de  Puysange  was  known  as 
a  brave  captain  and  a  judicious  counsellor  to 
the  King,  who  rewarded  his  services  as  liber- 
ally as  Tudorian  parsimony  would  permit. 
After  the  death  of  Henry  VII.,  however,  the 
Vicomte  took  little  part  in  public  affairs, 
spending  most  of  his  time  at  Tiverton  Manor, 
in  Devon,  where,  surrounded  by  their  nu- 
merous progeny,  he  and  Matthiette  grew  old  to- 
gether in — let  us  hope — peace  and  concord. 
I  think,  though,  that  she  never  quite  forgave 
him  for  not  being  de  Prison. 

The  following  is  from  a  manuscript  of 
doubtful  authenticity  still  to  be  seen  at  Allonby 
Shaw.  It  purports  to  contain  the  autobiog- 
raphy of  Master  Will  Sommers,  afterward 
court-fool  to  Henry  VIII.,  and  touches  in 
many  points  upon  the  history  of  the  family  of 
Puysange.  It  is  from  the  earlier  part  of 
these  memoirs  that  I  have  selected  the  ensuing 
episode. 


irl 


v      'j^.  A 


)ND  so,  dearie,"  she  ended, 
"you  may  seize  the  rev- 
enues of  Allonby  with  un- 
washed hands." 

I  said:  "Why  have  you 
.done  this?"     I  was   half- 
frightened  by  the  sudden  whirl  of  Dame 
Fortune's  wheel. 

"Dear   cousin   in  motley,"  grinned  the 
beldame,  "  'twas  for  hatred  of  Tom  Allonby 
and  all  his  accursed  race  that  I  have  kept  ,, 
the  secret  thus  long.     Now  comes  a  braver 
revenge :  and  I  wreak  my  vengeance  on  the 

211 

^     -  _ 


!-<$> 


JBlj?  Zitt?   nf 

whole  spawn  of  Allonby — euh,  how  entirely ! 
— by  setting  you  at  their  head .  Will  you  j  est 
for  them  in  counsel,  Willie? — reward  your 
henchmen  with  a  merry  quip  ? — lead  'em  to 
battle  with  a  bawdy  song? — ugh!  ugh!" 
Her  voice  crackled  like  burning  timber,  and 
sputtered  in  groans  that  would  have  been 
f anged  curses  had  breath  not  failed  her :  for 
my  aunt  Elinor  possessed  a  nimble  tongue, 
whetted,  as  rumor  had  it,  by  the  attendance 
of  divers  Sabbats,  and  the  chaunting  of 
such  songs  as  honest  men  may  not  hear  and 
live,  however  highly  succubi  and  lepri- 
chaunes  commend  them. 

I  squinted  down  at  one  green  leg,  scratch- 
ed the  crimson  fellow  to  it  with  my  bauble, 
and  could  not  deny  that  her  argument  was 
just. 

'Twas  a  strange  tale  she  had  ended,  speak- 
ing swiftly  lest  the  worms  grow  impatient 
and  Charon  weigh  anchor  ere  she  had  done : 
and  the  proofs  of  the  tale's  verity,  set  forth 
in  a  fair  clerkly  handwriting,  rustled  in  my 
hand, — scratches  of  a  long-rotted  pen  that 
transferred  me  to  the  right  side  of  the  blank- 


212 


i&^r-v" 

//aBi 


,    1 


"'TWAS    A    STRANGE    TALE    SHE    HAD    ENDED" 


et,  and   transformed  the  motley  of  a  fool 
into  the  ermine  of  a  peer. 

All  Devon  knew  that  I  was  son  to  Tom 
Allonby,  who  had  been  Marquis  of  Fal- 
mouth  at  his  uncle's  death,  had  he  not  first 
broken  his  neck  in  a  fox-hunt;  but  Dan 
Gabriel,  come  post-haste  from  Heaven  had 
with  difficulty  convinced  the  village  idiot 
that  Holy  Church  had  smiled  upon  his  union 
with  a  tanner's  daughter,  and  that  their 
son  was  lord  of  Allonby  Shaw.  I  doubted 
it,  even  as  I  read  the  proof.  Yet  it  was 
true, — true  that  I  had  precedence  even  of 
Monsieur  de  Puysange,  friend  of  the  King's 
though  he  was,  who  had  kept  me  on  a 
shifty  diet,  first  coins,  then  curses,  these 
ten  years  past, — true  that  my  father,  rogue 
in  all  else,  had  yet  dealt  equitably  with 
my  mother  ere  he  died,  —  true  that  my 
aunt,  less  honorably  used  by  him,  had 
shared  their  secret  with  the  priest  that 
married  them,  maliciously  preserving 
till  this,  when  her  words  fell  before  me 
anciently  Jove's  shower  before  the  Argi 
Danae,  coruscant  and  aweful,  pregnant  with 

14  213 


KA 

V? 


it     •>&»** 

as 

ve 


undreamed-of  chances  that  stirred  as  yet 
blindly  in  Time's  womb. 

A  sick  anger  woke  in  me,  remembering 
the  burden  of  ignoble  years  she  had  suf- 
fered me  to  bear ;  yet  my  callow  gentility 
bade  me  deal  tenderly  with  this  dying  peas- 
ant woman,  who,  when  all  was  said,  had 
been  but  ill-used  by  our  house.  Death  hath 
a  strange  potency :  commanding  as  he  doth, 
unquestioned  and  unchidden,  the  emperor 
to  have  done  with  slaying,  the  poet  to  rise 
from  his  unfinished  rhyme,  the  tender  and 
gracious  lady  to  cease  from  nice  denying 
words  (mixed  though  they  be  with  pitiful 
sighs  that  break  their  sequence  as  an 
amorous  ditty  heard  through  the  strains  of 
a  martial  stave),  and  all  men,  gentle  or  base, 
to  follow  his  gaunt  standard  into  unknown 
realms,  his  majesty  enshrines  the  paltriest 
knave  on  whom  the  weight  of  his  chill 
finger  hath  fallen.  I  doubt  not  that  Cain's 
children  wept  about  his  death-bed,  and  that 
the  centurions  spake  in  whispers  as  they 
lowered  Iscariot  from  the  elder-tree:  and  in 
like  manner  the  maledictions  that  stirred  in 


MM 


of 


<feL 
ffl0ttt*nt 


my  brain  had  no  power  to  move  my  lips. 
The  frail  carnal  tenement,  swept  and 
cleansed  of  all  mortality,  was  garnished  for 
Death's  coming;  I  must,  perforce,  shout 
"Huzzay!"  at  his  grim  pageant,  nor  could 
I  sorrow  at  his  advent ;  and  it  was  not  mine 
to  question  the  nobility  of  the  prey  which 
Age  and  Poverty,  his  unleashed  hounds, 
now  harried  at  the  door  of  the  tomb. 

"I  forgive  you,"  said  I. 

"Dear  marquis,"  said  she,  her  sunken 
jaws  quivering  angrily,  "  one  might  think  I 
had  kept  from  you  the  mastership  of  this 
wattled  hut,  rather  than  the  wardage  of 
Allonby  Shaw.  Dearie,  Monsieur  de  Puy- 
sange — ugh!  ugh! — Monsieur  de  Puysange 
did  not  take  the  news  so  calmly." 

"You  have  told  him?" 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  The  cold  malice  of 
her  face  was  rather  that  of  Bellona,  who, 
as  clerks  avow,  ever  bore  carnage  and  dis- 
sension in  her  train,  than  that  of  a  mortal, 
mutton-fed  woman.  Elinor  Sommers  hated 
me — having  God  knows  how  just  a  cause — 
for  the  reason  that  I  was  my  father's  son; 
215 


,1 


and  yet,  for  that  same  reason  as  I  think, 
there  was  in  all  our  intercourse  an  odd, 
harsh,  grudging  sort  of  tenderness. 

Now  the  hag  laughed, — flat  and  shrill, 
like  the  laughter  of  the  damned  heard  in 
Hell  between  the  roaring  of  the  flames. 
"Were  it  not  common  kindness,"  she  asked, 
"since  his  daughter  is  troth-plight  to  the 
usurper?  He  hath  known  since  morning." 

"And  Adeliza?"  I  asked,  in  a  voice  that 
tricked  me. 

"  Heh,  my  Lady-High-and-Mighty  knows 
nothing  as  yet.  She  will  learn  of  it  soon 
enough,  though,  for  Monsieur  Fine- Words 
her  father,  that  silky,  grinning  thief,  is  very 
keen  in  a  money-chase, — keen  as  a  terrier 
on  a  rat-track,  may  Satan  twist  his  neck! 
Pshutt,  dearie!  he  means  to  take  the  estate 
of  Allonby  as  it  stands;  what  live-stock 
may  go  therewith,  whether  crack-brained 
or  not,  is  all  one  to  him.  He  will  not  balk 
at  a  drachm  or  two  of  wit  in  his  son-in-law. 
You  have  but  to  whistle, — but  to  whistle, 
Willie,  and  she'll  come!" 

I  said:  "Woman,  have  you  no  heart?" 
216 


"  I  gave  it  to  your  father  for  a  few  lying 
speeches,"  she  answered,  "  and  Tom  Allonby 
taught  me  the  worth  of  all  such  commerce." 
There  was  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  sister  to 
that  which  Clytemnestra  may  have  flaunted 
in  welcome  of  that  old  Emperor  Agamem- 
non, come  in  gory  opulence  from  the  sack  of 
Troy  Town.  "  I  gave  it—  Her  voice  rose 
here  to  a  despairing  wail.  "  Ah,  go,  before 
I  lay  my  curse  upon  you,  son  of  Thomas 
Allonby!  Go,  cast  out  your  kinsman,  and 
play  the  fool  with  all  that  Tom  Allonby 
held  dear, — go,  make  his  name  a  byword 
that  begot  an  idiot  to  play  at  quoits  with 
coronets!  I  have  nurtured  you  for  this, 
and  you  will  not  fail  me;  you  are  not  all 
simpleton,  but  you  will  serve  my  purpose. 
Go,  my  lord  marquis ;  it  is  not  fitting  that 
death  should  intrude  into  your  lordship's 
presence.  Go,  fool,  and  let  me  die  in  peace!" 

I  no  longer  cast  a  cautious  eye  toward 
the  whip  (ah,  familiar  unkindly  whip!)  that 
still  hung  beside  the  door  of  the  hut ;  but,  I 
confess,  my  aunt's  looks  were  none  too 
delectable,  and  ancient  custom  rendered 
217 


'\» 


M& 


her  wrath  yet  terrible.  If  the  farmers 
thereabouts  were  to  be  trusted,  I  knew  Old 
Legion's  bailiff  would  shortly  be  at  hand, 
come  for  a  certain  overdue  soul,  escheat 
and  forfeited  to  Dis  by  many  years  of  cruel 
witchcrafts,  close  wiles,  and  nameless  sor- 
ceries; and  I  could  never  abide  unpared 
nails,  even  though  they  be  red-hot.  There- 
fore, I  relinquished  her  to  the  village  gossips, 
who  waited  without,  and  tucked  my  bauble 
under  my  arm. 

"Dear  cousin,"  said  I,  "farewell!" 
"Good-bye,   Willie!"   said  she;   "I  shall 
often  laugh  in  Hell  to  think  of  the  crack- 
brained   marquis   that    I   made   on   earth. 
Play  the  fool  yet,  dearie." 

'Tis  my  vocation,"  I  answered,  briefly: 
and  so  went  forth  into  the  night. 


At   tlj*  Hair's 


CAME  to  Tiverton  Manor 
through   a   darkness   black 
as    the    lining    of   Baalze- 
bub's    oldest     cloak.      The 
moon  was  not  yet  risen,  and 
the  clouds   hung  heavy  as 
feather-beds    between    mankind    and    the 
stars ;  even  the  swollen  Exe  was  but  dimly 
visible  as  I  crossed  the  bridge,  though  it 
roared   beneath  me,   and   shook  the   frail 
timbers   hungrily.      The   bridge   had   long 
been  unsafe:  Monsieur  de  Puysange  had 
planned  one  stronger  and  less  hazardous 
than  the  former  edifice,  of  which  the  arches 
yet  remained,  and  this  was  now  in  the  mak- 
ing, as  divers  piles  of  unhewn  lumber  and 
stone  attested :  meanwhile,  the  roadway  was 
219 


QIlj?  Kin*   of  Eon* 


a  makeshift  of  half  -rotten  wood  that  shook 
villanously  in  the  wind.  I  stood  for  a 
moment  and  heard  the  waters  lapping  and 
splashing  and  laughing,  as  though  they 
would  hold  it  rare  and  desirable  mirth  to 
swallow  and  spew  forth  a  powerful  marquis, 
and  grind  his  body  among  the  battered 
timber  and  tree-boles  and  dead  sheep  swept 
from  the  hills,  and  at  last  vomit  him  into 
the  sea,  that  a  corpse,  wide-eyed  and  livid, 
might  bob  up  and  down  the  beach,  in  quest 
of  a  quiet  grave  where  the  name  of  Allonby 
was  scarcely  known.  The  imagination  was 
so  vivid  that  it  frightened  me  as  I  picked 
my  way  cat-footed  through  the  dark. 

The  folk  of  Tiverton  Manor  were  knotting 
on  their  nightcaps,  by  this  ;  but  there  was  a 
light  in  the  Lady  Adeliza's  window,  faint  as 
a  sick  glowworm.  I  rolled  in  the  seeded 
grass  and  chuckled,  as  I  thought  of  what  a 
day  or  two  might  bring  about,  and  mur- 
mured to  myself  an  old  cradle-song  of  Devon 
that  she  loved  and  often  sang  ;  and  was,  ere 
I  knew  it,  carolling  aloud,  for  pure  wanton- 
ness and  joy  that  Monsieur  de  Puysange  was 


220 


r^j 


"LADY  ADELIZA  CAME  UPON  THE  BALCONY" 


0f  Content 


not  likely  to  have  me  whipped  now,  how- 
ever blatantly  I  might  elect  to  discourse. 
Sang  I: 

"In  the  lapse  of  years  there  lingers  yet 

A  fair  and  free  extent 
Of  shadowy  turret  and  parapet, — 
'Tis  the  Castle  of  Content. 


& 


"Ei  ho!  Ei  ho!  the  Castle  of  Content, 
With  drowsy  music  drowning  merriment, 
Where    Dreams    and    Visions    held    high 
carnival 

I/  2- 

And  Love,  vine-crowned,  sat  laughing  over 

all, — 
Ei  ho! 
The  vanished  Castle  of  Content!" 


As  I  ended,  the  casement  was  pushed 
open,  and  the  Lady  Adeliza  came  upon  the 
balcony,  the  light  streaming  from  behind 
her  in  such  fashion  as  made  her  appear  an 
angel  peering  out  of  Heaven  at  our  mortal 
antics.  Indeed,  there  was  something  more 
than  human  in  her  beauty,  though  it  savor- 


ed  less  of  divinity  than  of  a  vision  of  some 
silent  great-eyed  queen  of  faery,  such  as 
those  whose  feet  glide  unwetted  over  our 
fen -waters  when  they  roam  o'  nights  in 
search  of  unwary  travellers ;  the  perfection 
of  her  comeliness  left  men  almost  cold. 
She  was  a  fair  beauty;  that  is,  her  eyes 
were  of  the  color  of  opals,  and  her  com- 
plexion as  the  first  rose  of  Spring,  blushing 
at  her  haste  to  snare  men's  hearts  with 
beauty;  and  her  loosened  hair  rippled  in 
such  a  burst  of  splendor  that  I  have  seen 
a  pale  brilliancy,  like  that  of  amber, 
reflected  by  her  bared  shoulders  where 
the  bright  waves  fell  heavily  against  the 
tender  flesh  and  ivory  vied  with  gold  in 
beauty.  She  was  somewhat  proud,  they 
said;  and  to  others  she  may  have  been, 
but  to  me,  never.  Her  voice  was  a  low, 
sweet  song,  her  look  that  of  the  chaste 
Roman,  beneficent  Saint  Dorothy,  as  she 
is  pictured  in  our  Chapel  here  at  Tiver- 
ton.  Proud,  they  called  her!  to  me  her 
condescensions  were  so  manifold  that  I 
cannot  set  them  down:  indeed,  in  all  she 


¥ 


§ 


f( 


222 


SIIj*  OlajeitU   0f 


spoke  and  did  there  was  an  extreme  kind- 
liness that  made  a  courteous  word  from 
her  of  more  worth  than  a  purse  from  an- 
other. 

She  said:  "Is  it  you,  Will  Sommers?" 

"Madonna,"  I  answered,  "with  whom 
else  should  the  owls  confer?  It  is  a  vener- 
able saying  that  extremes  meet.  And  here 
you  may  behold  it  exemplified,  as  in  the 
conference  of  an  epicure  and  an  ostrich: 
though,  for  this  once,  Wisdom  makes  bold 
to  sit  above  Folly." 

"Did  you  carol,  then,  to  them?"  she 
queried. 

"Hand  upon  heart,"  said  I,  "my  grim 
gossips  care  less  for  my  melody  than  for  the 
squeaking  of  a  mouse ;  and  I  sang  rather  for 
joy  that  at  last  I  may  enter  into  the  Castle 
of  Content" 

The  Lady  Adeliza  sighed.  "With 
whom?"  said  she. 

"Madonna,"  said  I,  "your  apprehension 
is  nimble.  None  but  a  certain  woman's 
hand  may  lower  the  drawbridge." 

She  said  "You — you — ?"  and  then  de- 
223 


sisted,  incredulous  laughter  breaking  the 
soft  flow  of  speech. 

"  Now,  by  Paul  and  Peter,  those  eminent 
apostles!  the  prophet  Jeremy  never  spake 
more  veraciously  in  Edom!  The  fool  sighs 
for  a  fair  woman, — what  else  should  he  do, 
being  a  fool?  Ah,  madonna,  as  in  very 
remote  times  that  notable  jester,  Love, 
popped  out  of  Night's  wind -egg,  and  by 
his  sorcery  fashioned  from  the  primeval 
tangle  the  pleasant  earth  that  sleeps  about 
us — even  thus,  may  he  not  frame  the  dis- 
order of  a  fool's  brain  into  the  semblance  of 
a  lover's  ?  Believe  me,  the  change  is  not  so 
great  as  you  might  think.  Yet  if  you  will, 
laugh  at  me,  madonna,  for  I  love  a  woman 
far  above  me, — a  woman  who  knows  not 
of  my  love,  or,  at  most,  considers  it  but  as 
the  homage  that  grateful  peasants  accord 
the  all-nurturing  sun ;  and  now  that  chance 
hath  woven  me  a  ladder  whereby  to  mount 
to  her,  I  scarcely  dare  to  set  my  foot  upon 
the  bottom  rung." 

"A  ladder?"  she  said,  quickly;  "a  rope 
ladder?" 


224 


"A  golden  one,"  said  I. 

There  came  a  silence.  About  us  the  wind 
wailed  among  the  gaunt,  deserted  choir  of 
the  trees,  and  in  the  distance  an  owl  hooted 
sardonically. 

Presently  the  Lady  Adeliza  said:  "Be 
bold.  Be  bold,  and  know  that  a  woman 
loves  once  and  forever,  whether  she  will  or 
no.  Love  is  not  sold  in  the  shops,  and  the 
grave  merchants  that  trade  in  the  ultimate 
seas,  and  send  forth  argosies  even  to  jew- 
elled Ind,  to  fetch  home  rich  pearls,  and 
..strange  outlandish  dyes,  and  spiceries,  and 
the  raiment  of  proud,  long- dead  queens, 
have  bought  and  sold  no  love,  for  all  their 
traffic.  It  is  above  gold.  I  know" — here 
her  voice  faltered  somewhat — "  I  know  of  a 
woman  whose  birth  is  very  near  the  throne, 
and  whose  beauty,  such  as  it  is,  men  have 
commended,  who  loved  a  man  the  politic 
world  would  have  none  of,  for  he  was  not 
wealthy.  And  the  world  bade  her  relin- 
quish him ;  but  within  the  chambers  of  her 
heart  his  voice  rang  more  loudly  than  that 
of  the  world,  and  for  his  least  word  said 
225 


Citu   of 

she  would  leave  all  and  go  with  him  whither 

X  !a     j^  "Jftry 

he  would.  And — she  waits  for  the  speaking 
of  that  word." 

"Be  bold?"  said  I. 

"Ay,"  she  returned;  "that  is  the  moral 
of  my  tale.  Make  me  a  song  of  it,  dear  Will, 
— and  to-morrow,  perhaps,  you  shall  learn 
how  this  woman,  too,  entered  into  the  Castle 
of  Content." 

"Madonna — !"  I  cried. 

"  It  is  late,"  said  she,  "  and  I  must  go." 

"To-morrow — ?"  I  said.  Eh,  my  heart 
was  racing  now. 

"Ay,  to-morrow, — the  morrow  that  by 
this  draws  very  near.  Farewell!"  She 
was  gone,  casting  one  swift  glance  back- 
ward, even  as  the  ancient  Parthians  are 
fabled  to  have  shot  their  arrows  as  they 
fled;  and,  if  the  airier  missile,  also,  left  a 
wound,  I,  for  one,  would  not  willingly  have 
quitted  her  unscathed. 


^ 


WENT  forth  into  the  woods 
that  stand  thick  about 
Tiverton  Manor,  where  I 
lay  flat  on  my  back  among 
the  fallen  leaves,  dreaming 
many  dreams  to  myself, — 
dreams  that  were  frolic  songs  of  happiness, 
to  which  the  papers  in  my  jerkin  rustled  a 
reassuring  chorus. 

I  have  heard  that  night  is  own  sister  to 
death;  now,  as  the  harvest-moon  broke 
forth  in  a  red  glory,  and  the  stars  clustered 
about  her  like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees,  I 
thought  her  rather  the  parent  of  a  new  life. 
But,  indeed,  there  is  a  solemnity  in  the  night 
past  all  jesting :  it  knits  up  the  tangled  yarn 
of  our  day's  doings  into  a  pattern  either 
227 


OJlj*  3Ittt*   of  Eon* 


good  or  ill ;  it  renews  the  vigor  of  the  living, 
and  with  the  lapsing  of  the  tide  draws  the 
dying  toward  night's  impenetrable  depths, 
gently;  and  it  honors  the  secrecy  of  lovers 
as  zealously  as  that  of  rogues.  In  the  morn- 
ing our  bodies  rise  to  their  allotted  work; 
but  our  wits  have  had  their  season  in  the 
night,  or  of  kissing,  or  of  wassail,  or  of  high 
resolve;  and  the  greater  part  of  such  noble 
deeds  as  day  witnesses  have  been  planned  in 
the  solitude  of  night.  It  is  the  sage  coun- 
sellor, the  potent  physician  that  heals  and 
comforts  the  sorrows  of  all  the  world:  and 
such  night  proved  to  me,  as  I  pondered  on 
the  proud  race  of  Allonby,  and  knew  that  in 
the  general  record  of  time  my  name  must 
soon  be  set  as  a  sonorous  word  significant,  as 
the  cat  might  jump,  for  much  good  or  for 
unspeakable  evil. 

And  Adeliza  loved  me!  I  may  not  write 
of  what  my  thoughts  were  as  I  considered 
that  stupendous  miracle. 

But  even  the  lark  that  daily  soars  into 
the  naked  presence  of  the  sun  must  seek  his 
woven  nest  among  the  grass  at  twilight; 
228 


and  so,  with  many  yawns,  I  rose  after  an 
hour  to  repair  bedward.  Tiverton  Manor 
was  a  formless  blot  on  the  mild  radiance  of 
the  heavens,  but  I  must  needs  pause  for  a 
while,  gazing  up  at  the  Lady  Adeliza's  win- 
f\\  dow,  like  a  hen  drinking  water,  and  thinking 
of  diverse  matters. 

It  was  then  that  something  rustled  among 
the  leaves,  and,  turning,  I  stared  straight 
into  the  countenance  of  Stephen  Allonby, 
until  to-day  Marquis  of  Falmouth,  a  slim, 
comely  youth,  and  my  very  good  cousin. 

"Fool,"  said  he,  "you  walk  late." 

"Faith!"  said  I,  "instinct  warned  me 
that  a  fool  might  find  fit  company  here, — 
cousin."  He  winced  at  the  word,  for  he 
was  never  prone  to  admit  the  relationship, 
being  in  disposition  somewhat  precise. 

"Eh?"  said  he;  then  paused  for  a  while. 
"I  have  more  kinsmen  than  I  knew  of,"  he 
resumed,  at  length,  "and  to-day  spawns 
them  thick  as  herrings.  Your  greeting 
falls  strangely  pat  with  that  of  a  brother 
of  yours,  alleged  to  be  begot  in  lawful  mat- 
rimony, who  hath  appeared  to  claim  the 
js  229 


title  and  estates,  and  hath  even  imposed 
upon  the  credulity  of  Monsieur  de 
Puysange." 

I  said:  "And  who  is  this  new  kinsman?" 
though  his  speech  shook  my  heart  into  my 
mouth.  "I  have  many  brethren,  if  report 
speak  truly." 

"I  know  not,"  said  he;  "I  learned  it  but 
to-day." 

I  was  moved  with  pity  for  him.  It  was 
plainer  than  a  pike-staff  that  Monsieur  de 
Puysange  had  very  recently  bundled  this 
penniless  young  fellow  out  of  Tiverton,  with 
scant  courtesy  and  a  scantier  explanation. 
Still  the  wording  of  this  sympathy  was  a 
ticklish  business.  I  waved  my  hand  up- 
ward. "The  match,  then,  is  broken  off?" 

"Ay!"  my  cousin  said,  grimly. 

Again  I  was  nonplussed.  Since  their  be- 
trothal was  an  affair  of  rank  conveniency, 
he  should,  in  reason,  grieve  at  this  miscar- 
riage temperately,  and  yet  if  by  an  awkward 
chance  he,  too,  adored  the  delicate  comeli- 
ness asleep  above  us,  equity  conceded  his 
taste  to  be  unfortunate  rather  than  re- 
230 


nf 


markable.  Inwardly  I  resolved  to  bestow 
upon  my  Cousin  Stephen  a  competence,  and 
to  pick  out  for  him  somewhere  a  wife  better 
suited  to  his  station.  Meanwhile  a  silence 
fell  between  us. 

He  cleared  his  throat;  swore  softly  to 
himself ;  took  a  brief  turn  on  the  walk ;  and 
approached  me,  purse  in  hand.  "  It  is  time 
you  were  abed,"  said  my  cousin. 

I  assented  to  this.  "And  since  one  may 
sleep  anywhere,"  I  reasoned,  "why  not 
here?"  Thereupon,  for  I  was  somewhat 
puzzled  at  his  bearing,  I  lay  down  flat  upon 
the  gravel  and  snored. 

"Fool,"  he  said.  I  opened  one  eye.  "I 
have  business  here" — I  opened  the  other — 
"with  the  Lady  Adeliza."  He  tossed  me  a 
coin  as  I  sprang  to  my  feet. 

"Sir—!"  I  cried. 

"Ho,  she  expects  me." 

"In  that  case — "  said  I. 

"The  difficulty  is  to  give  a  signal." 

" 'Tis  as  easy  as  lying,"  I  reassured  him; 
and  thereupon  I  began  to  sing. 

Sang  I: 

231 


I  f*^       , 

$  £ 

^^N^M^W> 
rf^P^^ 


LiU 
[.<©> 


BI 


Sin*   nf  Slott* 


"Scant  heed  had  we  of  the  fleet,  sweet  hours, 

Till  the  troops  of  Time  were  sent 
To  seize  the  treasures  and  take  the  towers 
Of  the  Castle  of  Content. 


m\< 


"  Ei  ho !    Ei  ho !  the  Castle  of  Content, 
With  flaming  tower  and  falling  battlement; 
Prince  Time  hath  conquered,  and  the  fire- 
light streams 
Above    the    wounded    Loves,    the    dying 

Dreams, — Ei  ho! 
The  vanished  Castle  of  Content!" 


And,  in  truth,  I  had  scarcely  ended  when 
the  casement  opened. 

"Stephen!"  said  the  Lady  Adeliza. 

"Dear  love!"  said  he. 

"Humph '."said  I. 

Here  a  rope-ladder  unrolled  from  the 
balcony  and  hit  me  upon  the  head. 

"Regard  the  orchard  for  a  moment,"  the 
Lady  Adeliza  said,  with  the  wonderfullest 
little  laugh. 

My  cousin  indignantly  protested:  "I 
have  company, — a  burr  that  sticks  to  me." 


"A  fool,"  I  explained, — "to  keep  him  in 
countenance." 

"It  was  ever  the  part  of  folly,"  said  she, 
laughing  yet  again,  "to  be  swayed  by  a 
woman ;  and  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  to  be 
discreet." 

We  held  each  a  strand  of  the  ladder  and 
stared  at  the  ripening  apples,  black  globes 
among  the  wind-vext  silver  of  the  leaves. 
In  a  moment  the  Lady  Adeliza  stood  be- 
tween us.  Her  hand  rested  upon  mine  as 
she  leapt  to  the  ground, — the  tiniest  velvet- 
soft  trifle  that  ever  set  a  man's  blood  a-tingle. 

"  I  did  not  know—  "  said  she. 

"Faith,  madonna!"  said  I,  "no  more  did 
I  till  this.  I  deduce  but  now  that  the 
Marquis  of  Falmouth  is  the  person  you  dis- 
coursed of  an  hour  since,  and  with  whom 
you  hope  to  enter  the  Castle  of  Content." 

"Ah,  Will!  dear  Will,  do  not  think  lightly 
of  me,"  she  said.  "My  father — " 

"  Is  as  all  of  them  have  been  since  Father 
Adam's  dotage,"  I  ended;  "and  therefore 
keeps  honest  horses — and  fools — from  their 
rest." 


ff 


*(¥§' 
'\^  • 

°^*?r- 

a 

c 


My  cousin  said,  angrily:  "  You  have  been 
spying!" 

"  Because  I  know  that  there  are  horses 
yonder?"  said  I.  "And  fools  here — and 
everywhere  ?  Surely,  there  needs  no  beard- 
ed Merlin  come  yawning  out  of  Brocheli- 
aunde  to  inform  us  of  that." 

He  said:  "You  will  be  secret?" 

"  In  comparison,"  I  answered,  "the  grave 
is  garrulous,  and  a  death's-head  a  chat- 
tering magpie ;  yet  I  think  that  your  maid, 
madonna, — " 

"  Beatris  is  sworn  to  silence." 

"  Which  signifies  she  is  already  on  her  way 
to  Monsieur  de  Puysange.  She  was  coerced ; 
she  discovered  it  too  late;  and  a  sufficiency 
of  tears  and  pious  protestations  will  attest 
her  innocence.  It  is  all  one."  I  winked 
my  eye  sagely. 

"  Your  jesting  is  tedious,"  my  cousin  said. 
"Come,  Adeliza!" 

Blaise,  my  lord  marquis's  French  servant, 
held  three  horses  in  the  shadow,  so  close  that 
it  was  incredible  I  had  not  heard  their 
trampling.  They  mounted  and  were  off 
234 


» 


v-    X"G? 
Y<$$r  ^w 

TT-3R^ 


0f 


like   thistledown    ere    Blaise   put    foot   to 
stirrup. 

"Blaise,"  said  I. 

"Ohe!"  said  he,  pausing. 

" — if,  upon  this  pleasurable  occasion,  I 
were  to  borrow  your  horse — " 

"Impossible!" 

"  If  I  were  to  take  it  by  force — "     I  ex- 
hibited my  coin. 

"Eh?" 
—no  one  could  blame  you." 

"And  yet  perhaps — " 

"  The  deduction  is  quite  illogical,"  said  I. 
And  pushing  him  aside,  a  trifle  uncertain,  I 
mounted  and  set  out  into  the  night  after 
\j  my  cousin  and  the  Lady  Adeliza. 


IV 


All  £nits  In  a  Jhtff  of 


HEY  rode  leisurely  enough 
along  the  winding  highway 
that  lay  in  the  moonlight 
like  a  white  ribbon  in  a 
pedlar's  box;  and  keeping 
as  I  did  some  hundred 
yards  behind,  they  thought  me  no  other 
than  Blaise,  being  indeed,  too  much  en- 
grossed" with  one  another  to  regard  the  outer 
world  very  strictly.  So  we  rode  a  matter* 
of  three  miles  in  the  whispering,  moonlit 
woods,  they  prattling  and  laughing  as 
though  there  were  no  such  monster  in  all  the 
universe  as  an  irate  father,  I  brooding  of 
many  things  and  with  an  ear  cocked  back- 
ward for  possible  pursuit. 

In   most  cases  they  might   escape   un- 
236 


%* 

AW 


£tt*tit     0f    (Ellttttttt 


troubled  to  Teignmouth,  and  thence  to 
Allonby  Shaw ;  they  counted  fully  upon  this ; 
but  I,  knowing  Beatris,  who  was  waiting- 
maid  to  the  Lady  Adeliza,  and  consequently 
in  the  plot,  to  be  the  devil's  own  vixen, 
despite  an  innocent  face  and  a  wheedling 
tongue,  was  less  certain. 

I  shall  not  easily  forget  that  ride:  about 
us  the  woods  sighed  and  whispered,  dappled 
by  the  moonlight  with  unstable  chequer- 
ings  of  blue  and  silver.  Tightly  he  clung 
to  my  crupper,  that  swart  tireless  horseman, 
Care;  but  ahead  rode  Love,  anterior  to  all 
things  and  yet  eternally  young,  in  quest  of 
the  Castle  of  Content.  The  horses'  hoofs 
beat  against  the  pebbles  in  chorus  to  the 
Devon  cradle-song  that  rang  idly  in  my 
brain.  'Twas  little  to  me  whether  the  quest 
were  won  or  lost ;  yet,  as  I  watched  the  Lady 
Adeliza's  white  cloak  tossing  and  fluttering 
in  the  wind,  my  blood  pulsed  more  strongly 
than  it  is  wont  to  do,  and  was  stirred  by  the 
keen  odors  of  the  night  and  many  memories 
of  her  gracious  kindliness  and  a  desire  to 
serve  somewhat  toward  the  attainment  of 
237 


S0 


Uttt* 


her  happiness.  Thus  it  was  that  my  teeth 
clinched,  and  a  dog  howled  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  world  seemed  very  old  and 
very  incurious  of  our  mortal  woes  and 
joys. 

Then  that  befell  which  I  had  looked  for, 
and  I  heard  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  be- 
hind us,  and  knew  that  Monsieur  de  Puy- 
sange  and  his  men  were  come  hastily  to 
rescue  the  Lady  Adeliza  from  my  cousin, 
that  she  might  be  my  bride.  I  essayed  a 
gallop. 

"Spur!"  I  cried; — "in  the  name  of  Saint 
Cupid!" 

With  a  little  gasp,  she  bent  forward  over 
her  horse's  mane,  urging  him  onward  with 
every  nerve  and  muscle  of  her  tender  body. 
I  could  not  keep  my  gaze  from  her  face  as 
we  swept  through  the  night.  Picture 
Europa  in  her  traverse,  bull-borne,  through 
the  Summer  sea,  the  depths  giving  up  their 
misshapen  deities,  and  the  blind  sea-snakes 
writhing  about  her  in  hideous  homage,  yet 
cognizant  of  Crete  beyond  these  unaccus- 
tomed horrors  and  the  god  desirous  of  her 
238 


She  (Castle  of  (Content 

contentation ;  and  there,  to  an  eyelash,  you 
have  Adeliza  as  I  saw  her. 

But  steadily  our  pursuers  gained  on  us: 
and  as  we  paused  to  pick  our  way  over  the 
frail  bridge  that  spanned  the  Exe,  their 
clamor  was  very  near. 

"Take  care!"  I  cried, — but  too  late,  for 
my  horse  swerved  under  me  as  I  spoke,  and 
my  lord  marquis's  steed  caught  foot  in  a 
pile  of  lumber  and  fell  heavily.  He  was  up 
in  a  moment,  unhurt,  but  the  horse  was 
lamed. 

"You!"  he  cried. 

I  said:  "My  fellow-madmen,  it  is  all  one 
if  I  have  a  taste  for  night-riding  and  the 
shedding  of  noble  blood.  Alack,  though, 
that  I  have  left  my  brave  bauble  at  Tiver- 
ton !  Had  I  that  here,  I  might  do  such  deeds ! 
I  might  show  such  prowess  upon  the  per- 
son of  Monsieur  de  Puysange  as  your  Nine 
Worthies  would  quake  to  hear  of!  For  I 
have  the  honor  to  inform  you,  my  doves, 
that  we  are  captured." 

Indeed,  we  were,  for  even  the  two  sound 
horses  were  wellnigh  foundered :  Blaise,  the 
239 


idle  rogue,  had  not  troubled  to  provide  fresh 
ones,  so  easy  had  the  flitting  seemed;  and 
it  was  conspicuous  that  we  would  be  over- 
taken in  half  an  hour. 

"So  it  seems,"  said  he.  "Well!  one  can 
die  but  once."  Thus  speaking,  he  drew  his 
sword  with  an  air  Captain  Leonidas,  at 
Thermopylae,  might  have  envied. 

"Together,  my  heart!"  she  cried. 

"Madonna,"  said  I,  dismounting  as  I 
spoke,  "  pray  you  consider!  With  neither  of 
you,  is  there  any  question  of  death ;  'tis  but 
that  Monsieur  de  Puysange  desires  you  to 
make  a  suitable  match.  It  is  not  yet  too 
late;  his  heart  is  very  kindly,  and  he  hath 
no  malice  toward — toward  my  lord  marquis. 
Yield,  then,  to  his  wishes,  since  there  is  no 
choice." 

She  stared  at  me,  in  amazement  at  this 
sensible  advice.  "  And  you — is  it  you  that 
would  enter  into  the  Castle  of  Content  ?"  she 
cried,  with  a  scorn  that  lashed. 

I  said :  "  Madonna,  bethink  you,  you  know 
naught  of  this  man  your  father  desires  you  to 
wed.  Is  it  not  possible  that  he,  too,  may  love 
240 


t* 


(614 


•maw 


£v> 

'6k. 


— or  may  learn  to  love  you,  on  provocation? 
You  are  very  fair,  madonna.  Yours  is  a 
beauty  that  may  draw  a  man  to  Heaven  or 
unclose  the  gates  of  Hell,  at  will;  indeed, 
even  I,  in  my  poor  dreams,  have  seen  your 
face  many  times,  bright  and  glorious  as  is 
the  lighted  space  above  the  altar  when 
Christ's  blood  and  body  are  shared  among 
His  worshippers;  men  will  never  cease  to 
love  you,  I  think.  Will  he — your  husband 
that  may  be — prove  less  susceptible?  Ah, 
madonna,  let  us  unrein  imagination.  Sup- 
pose, were  it  possible,  that  he — even  now — 
yearns  to  enter  into  the  Castle  of  Content, 
and  that  your  hand,  your  hand  alone,  may 
draw  the  bolt  for  him — that  the  thought  of 
you  is  to  him  as  a  flame  before  which  honor 
and  faith  shrivel  as  shed  feathers,  and  that 
he  has  loved  you  these  many  years,  un- 
known to  you,  long,  long  before  the  Marquis 
of  Falmouth  came  into  your  life  with  his 
fair  face  and  smooth  sayings.  Suppose, 
were  it  possible,  that  he  now  stood  before 
you,  every  pulse  and  fibre  of  him  racked  ^|j 
with  an  intolerable  ecstasy  of  loving  you, 
241 


his  heart  one  vast  hunger  for  you,  Adeliza, 
and  his  voice  shaking  as  my  voice  shakes, 
and  his  hands  trembling  as  my  hands  trem- 
ble,— ah,  see  how  they  tremble,  madonna, 
the  poor  foolish  hands!  Suppose,  were  it 
possible, — " 

"Fool!  O,  treacherous  fool!"  my  cousin 
cried,  in  a  rage. 

She  rested  her  finger-tips  upon  his  arm. 
"Plush!"  she  bade  him;  then  turned  to  me 
an  uncertain  countenance  that  was  half  pity, 
half  wonder.  "Dear  Will,"  said  she,  "if 
you  have  ever  known  aught  of  love,  do  you 
not  understand  that  I  love  Stephen  here?" 
A  tear  stole  down  her  cheek,  in  which  the 
Marquis  of  Falmouth  had  no  share.  At 
last — at  last,  praise  God! — she  saw  and  read 
the  message  my  eyes  had  borne  these  two 
years  past. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  I, — my  voice  played 
me  strange  tricks, — "in  that  case,  may  I 
request  that  you  assist  me  in  gathering  such 
brushwood  as  we  may  find  hereabout?" 

They  both  stared  at  me  now .  "My  lord , ' ' 
I  said,  "the  Exe  is  high,  the  bridge  is  of 
242 


iilir  (Castlr    of  (Cnntrttt 


wood,  and  I  have  flint  and  steel  in  my  pocket 
The  ford  is  five  miles  above  and  quite  im- 
passable. Do  you  understand  me,  my 
lord?" 

He  clapped  his  hands.  "Excellent!"  he 
cried. 

Then,  they  having  caught  my  drift,  we 
heaped  up  a  pile  of  broken  boughs  and  twigs 
and  brushwood  on  the  bridge,  all  three  gath- 
ering it  together.  I  doubt  if  the  moon,  that 
is  co-partner  in  the  antics  of  most  rogues 
and  lovers,  ever  saw  a  stranger  sight  than 
that  of  a  marquis,  a  peer's  daughter,  and  a 
fool  met  at  dead  of  night  to  make  fagots. 

When  we  had  done  I  handed  him  the. 
flint  and  steel.  "My  lord,"  said  I,  "the 
honor  is  yours." 

"Udsfoot!"  he  murmured,  in  a  moment, 
swearing  and  striking  futile  sparks,  "last 
night's  rain  has  wet  the  wood  through.  It 
will  not  kindle." 

I  said:  "Assuredly,   in   such  matters   a 

. 
fool  is  indispensable."     I  heaped  before  him  /n 

the  papers  that  made  an  honest  woman  of 
my  mother  and  a  marquis  of  me,  and  seizing 


the  flint,  cast  a  spark  among  them  that  set 
them  crackling  cheerily.  Then  we  three  drew 
back  upon  the  western  bank  and  watched 
the  writhing  twigs  splutter  and  snap  and 
burn. 

The  bridge  caught  apace  and  in  ten 
minutes  afforded  passage  to  nothing  short 
of  the  ardent  equipage  of  the  prophet  Elias. 
In  twenty  minutes  it  did  not  exist :  only  the 
stone  arches  towered  above  the  roaring 
waters  that  glistened  in  the  light  of  the  fire, 
which  had,  by  this,  reached  the  other  side 
to  find  quick  employment  in  the  woods  of 
Tiverton.  Our  pursuers  rode  through  a 
glare  which  was  that  of  Hell's  kitchen  on 
baking-day,  and  reached  the  Exe  only  to 
curse  vainly  and  shriek  idle  imprecations  at 
us,  who  were  as  immune  from  their  anger 
as  though  the  severing  river  had  been  Pyri- 
phlegethon. 

"My  lord,"  I  presently  suggested,  "it 
may  be  that  your  priest  expects  you?" 

"Indeed,"  said  he,  laughing,  "it  is  possi- 
ble. Let  us  go."  Thereupon  they  mount- 
ed the  two  sound  horses.  "My  man,"  said 
244 


ftWUbMMgggg 

(CaHlU    of   (Cottlmf 


he,   "follow  on  foot  to  Teignmouth;  and 

there—" 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "my  home  is  at  Tiverton." 
He  wheeled  about .  ' '  Do  you  not  fear —  ? ' ' 
"The  whip?"  said  I.  "Ah,  my  lord,  I 

have  been  whipped  ere  this.     It  is  not  the 

Ox  *• 
greatest  ill  in  life  to  be  whipped." 

He  began  to  protest. 

"But,  indeed,  I  am  resolved,"  said  I. 
"Farewell!" 

He  tossed  me  his  purse.  "As  you  will," 
he  retorted,  shortly.  "We  thank  you  for 
your  aid;  and  if  I  am  still  master  of  Allon- 
by-" 

"No  fear  of  that!"  I  said.  "Farewell, 
cousin  Marquis!  I  cannot  weep  at  your 
going,  since  it  brings  you  happiness.  And 
we  have  it  on  excellent  authority  that  the 
laughter  of  fools  is  as  the  crackling  of  thorns 
under  a  pot.  Accordingly,  I  bid  you  God- 
speed in  a  discreet  silence." 

g*  "^ 

I  stood  fumbling  my  cousin's  gold  as  he  r 

cantered  forward  into  the  night;  but  she 
did  not  follow. 

"  I  am  sorry — "  she  began.     She  paused, 

Lv 


4 


1 


g$fc      a**  *i«f  af 

and  the  lithe  fingers  fretted  with  her  horse's 
mane. 

I  said:  "Madonna,  you  have  told  me  of 
love's  nature:  must  my  halting  commen- 
tary prove  the  glose  upon  your  text  ?  Look, 
then,  to  be  edified  while  the  fool  is  delivered 
of  his  folly.  Love  was  born  of  the  ocean, 
madonna,  and  the  ocean  is  but  salt  water, 
and  salt  water  is  but  tears;  and  thus  may 
love  claim  kin  with  sorrow, — ay,  madonna, 
Fate  hath  ordained  for  her  diversion  that 
through  sorrow  alone  we  lovers  may  regain 
the  Castle  of  Content." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  the  wind 
wailed  among  the  falling,  tattered  leaves. 
"Had  I  but  known — "  Adeliza  said,  very 
sadly. 

I  said:  "Madonna,  go  forward  and  God 
speed  you !  Yonder  your  lover  waits  for  you, 
and  the  world  is  exceedingly  fair ;  here  there 
is  only  a  fool  who  discourses  tediously  of 
matters  his  poor  brain  may  not  fathom,  and 
whose  rude  tongue  is  likely  to  chaunt  but 
an  unmannerly  marriage-song.  As  for  this 
new  Marquis  of  Falmouth,  let  him  trouble 
246 


•S? 


Ur 


SIIj?   fflastU  of 


you  no  longer.  "Tis  an  Eastern  superstition 
that  we  lackbrains  are  endowed  with  the 
gift  of  prophecy,  and  as  such,  I  predict,  very 
confidently,  madonna,  that  you  will  see  and 
hear  no  more  of  him  in  this  life." 

I  caught  my  breath.  In  the  moonlight 
she  seemed  God's  master-work.  Her  eyes 
were  big  with  half-comprehended  sorrow, 
and  a  slender  hand  stole  timorously  toward 
me.  I  laughed,  seeing  how  she  strove  to 
comprehend  sorrow  and  could  not,  by  rea- 
son of  the  great  happiness  that  throbbed  in 
each  delicate  vein.  I  laughed  and  was  con- 
tent. "As  God  reigns  in  Heaven,"  I  cried 
aloud,  "I  am  content!" 

More  alertly  she  regarded  me ;  and  in  her 
eyes  I  saw  the  anxiety  and  the  wonder 
merge  now  into  illimitable  pity.  "That, 
too!"  she  said,  with  a  sob.  "That,  too, 
O  son  of  Thomas  Allonby!"  And  then  her 
mothering  arms  were  clasped  about  me,  and 
her  lips  clung  and  were  one  with  my  lips  for 
a  moment,  and  her  tears  were  wet  upon  my 
cheek.  She  seemed  to  shield  me,  making 
of  her  breast  my  sanctuary. 
247 


cs'' 


Y     %1  *7 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  I  am  not  worthy!" 
said  Adeliza,  with  a  tenderness  I  cannot 
tell  you  of;  and  presently  she,  too,  was 
gone. 


I  mounted  the  lamed  horse,  who  limped 
slowly  up  the  river  bank:  very  slowly  we 
came  out  from  the  glare  of  the  crackling 
fire  into  the  cool  darkness  of  the  Autumn 
woods ;  very  slowly,  for  the  horse  was  lamed 
and  wearied,  and  patience  is  a  discreet 
virtue  when  one  journeys  toward  curses  and 
the  lash  of  a  dog- whip:  and  I  thought 
of  many  quips  and  jests  whereby  to 
soothe  the  anger  of  Monsieur  de  Puysange, 
and  sang  to  myself  as  I  rode  through 
the  woods,  a  nobleman  no  longer,  a  beg- 
gar now  whose  tongue  must  save  his 
hide. 

Sang  I: 

"  The  towers  are  fallen ;  no  laughter  rings 
Through  the  rafters,  charred  and  rent; 
The  ruin  is  wrought  of  all  goodly  things 
In  the  Castle  of  Content. 


n 


Ei  ho!    Ei  ho!  the  Castle  of  Content, 
Beyond  the  Land  of  Youth,  where  mirth  was 

meant ! 

The  walls  are  ashes  now,  and  all  in  vain 
Hand-shadowed   eyes   turn   backward   and 

regain 
Only  the  memory  of  that  dear  domain, — 

Ei  ho! 
The  vanished  Castle  of  Content  I" 


^ 


A/jfe: 


Yll 
MA  Y  27,   1559 

"' O  welladayT  said  Beichan  then, 

'  That  I  so  soon  have  married  theet 
For  it  can  be  none  but  Susie  Pie, 
That  sailed  the  sea  for  love  of  me"' 


iff 


><=\'^A 
?\ 


tfi 


JT  TTOW  Will  Sommers  encountered  the 

I  m  Marchioness  of  Falmouih  in  the  Car- 
JL  JL  dinal's  house  at  Whitehall,  and  how 
in  Windsor  Forest  that  noble  lady  died  with 
the  fool's  arms  about  her,  does  not  con- 
cern us  here.  That  is  matter  for  another 
tale. 

She  had  borne  three  children,  all  boys.  But 
when  the  ninth  Marquis  of  Falmonth  died 
long  afterward,  in  the  November  of  1557,  he 
was  survived  by  only  one  of  these,  a  junior 
Stephen,  born  in  1530,  who  at  his  father's 
demise  succeeded  to  the  title.  The  oldest  son, 
Thomas,  born  1521,  had  been  killed  in  Wy ait's 
Rebellion  in  1554;  the  second,  George,  born 
1526,  was  stabbed  in  a  disreputable  tavern 
brawl  two  years  later. 

Now  we  have  to  do  with  the  tenth  Marquis 
of  Falmouth's  suit  for  the  hand  of  Lady 
Ursula  Heleigh,  the  Earl  of  Brudenel's  co- 
253 


tt 


K7. 


heiress.  You  are  to  imagine  yourself  at 
Longaville  Court,  in  Sussex,  at  a  time  when 
Anne  Bulleris  daughter  was  very  recently  be- 
come Queen  of  England. 


w 


\ — attfc    2J0t»*'0    iftimir 

[ER  three  lovers  had  praised 
her  with  many  canzonets 
and  sonnets  on  that  May 
morning  as  they  sat  in  the 
rose-garden  at  Longaville, 
and  the  sun-steeped  leaves 
made  a  tempered  aromatic  shade  about 
them.  Afterward  they  had  drawn  grass- 
blades  to  decide  who  should  accompany 
the  Lady  Ursula  to  the  Summer  pavilion, 
that  she  might  fetch  her  viol  and  sing  them 
a  song  of  love,  and  in  the  sylvan  lottery 
chance  had  favored  the  Earl  of  Pevensey. 
255 


(Hit?    ffittt*   of 

Left  to  themselves,  the  Marquis  of  Fal- 
mouth  and  Master  Kit  Mervale  regarded 
each  the  other,  irresolutely,  like  strange 
curs  uncertain  whether  to  fraternize  or  to 
fly  at  one  another's  throat.  Then  Master 
Mervale  lay  down  in  the  young  grass, 
stretched  himself,  twirled  his  thin  black  mus- 
tachios,  and  chuckled  in  luxurious  content. 

"Decidedly,"  said  he,  "your  lordship  is 
past  master  in  the  art  of  wooing;  no  uni- 
versity in  the  world  would  refuse  you  a 
degree." 

The  marquis  frowned.  He  was  a  great 
bluff  man,  with  wheat-colored  hair,  and  was 
somewhat  slow-witted.  After  a  little  he 
found  the  quizzical,  boyish  face  that  mocked 
him  irresistible,  and  laughed,  and  unbent 
from  the  dignified  reserve  he  had  firmly 
intended  to  maintain. 

"Master  Mervale,"  he  said,  "I  will  be 
frank  with  you,  for  you  appear  a  lad  of  good 
bearing,  as  lads  go,  barring  a  trifle  of  affecta- 
tion and  a  certain  squeamishness  in  speech. 
When  I  seek  my  way  to  a  woman's  heart,  I 
am  as  any  other  explorer  venturing  into  a 
256 


KS 


strange  country ;  as  he  takes  with  him  beads 
and  mirrors  to  placate  the  inhabitants,  so  do 
I  fetch  with  me  sonnets  and  such-like  gew- 
gaws to  please  her  fancies ;  only  when  I  find 
a  glut  of  them  left  by  previous  adventurers 
must  I  pay  my  way  with  pure  gold.  And 
truth,  Master  Mervale,  is  a  jewel." 

Master  Mervale  raised  his  eyebrows. 
"Truth?"  he  queried,  gently.  And  beyond 
doubt  Lord  Falmouth's  wooing  was  of  a 
rather  florid  sort. 

However,  "  It  would  surely  be  indelicate," 
the  marquis  suggested,  "to  allow  even 
truth  to  appear  quite  unclothed  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  lady?"  He  smiled  and  took  a 
short  turn  on  the  grass.  "  Look  you,  Mas- 
ter Mervale,"  said  he,  narrowing  his  pale- 
blue  eyes  to  mere  slits,  "  I  have,  somehow,  a 
great  disposition  to  confidence  come  upon 
me.  Frankly,  my  passion  for  the  Lady 


H>     • 

\_— .'.   ^ 


Ursula  burns  more  mildly  than  that  which 

J 

Antony  bore  the  Egyptian ;  it  is  less  a  fire 
whereby  to  consume  kingdoms  than  a 
candle  wherewith  to  light  a  contented 
home;  and  quite  frankly,  I  mean  to  have 
257 


her.  The  estates  lie  convenient,  the  fami- 
lies are  of  equal  rank,  her  father  is  agreed, 
and  she  has  a  sufficiency  of  beauty;  there 
are,  in  short,  no  obstacles  to  our  union  save 
you  and  my  lord  of  Pevensey,  and  these,  I 
confess,  I  do  not  fear.  I  can  wait,  Master 
Mervale.  O,  I  am  patient,  Master  Mervale, 
but,  I  own,  I  cannot  brook  denial.  It  is  I, 
or  no  one.  By  Saint  Gregory!  I  wear  steel 
at  my  side,  Master  Mervale,  that  will  serve 
for  other  purposes  save  that  of  opening 
oysters!"  So  he  blustered  in  the  Spring 
sunlight,  and  frowned  darkly  as  Master 
Mervale,  after  a  hopeless  attempt  at  gravity, 
lay  flat  upon  his  back  and  crowed  like  a 
cock  in  irrepressible  laughter. 

"Your  patience  shames  Job  the  Pa- 
triarch," said  he,  when  he  had  ended  and 
had  wiped  away  his  tears ;  "  yet,  it  seems  to 
me,  my  lord,  you  do  not  consider  one  thing. 
I  grant  you  that  Pevensey  and  I  are  your 
equals  neither  in  estate  nor  reputation ;  still, 
setting  modesty  aside,  is  it  not  possible  the 
Lady  Ursula  may  come,  in  time,  to  love  one 
of  us?" 


\A 


"Setting  common  sense  aside,"  said  the 
marquis,  stiffly,  "it  is  possible  she  may  be 
smitten  with  a  tertian  fever.  Let  us  hope, 
however,  that  she  may  escape  both  con- 
tagions." 

The  younger  man  refrained  from  speech 
for  a  while.  Presently,  "You  liken  love  to 
a  plague,"  he  said,  "yet  I  have  heard  there 
was  once  a  cousin  of  the  Lady  Ursula's — a 
Mistress  Katherine  Beaufort — " 

"  Swounds !"  The  oath  came  out  with  the 
sound  of  ripping  cloth.  Lord  Falmouth 
wheeled  about,  scowled,  and  then  tapped 
sharply  upon  the  palm  of  one  hand  with  the 
nail-bitten  fingers  of  the  other.  "Ay," 
said  he,  more  slowly,  "there  was." 

"She  loved  you?"  Master  Mervale  sug- 
gested. 

"God  help  me!"  groaned  the  marquis; 
"we  loved  one  another!  I  know  not  how 
you  came  by  your  information,  nor  do  I  ask. 
Yet,  it  is  ill  to  open  an  old  wound.  I  loved 
her;  let  that  suffice."  With  a  set  face,  he 
turned  away  for  a  moment  and  gazed  tow- 
ard the  slender  parapets  of  Longaville, 
259 


ilin?    of  iloitr 


half-hidden  by  pale  foliage  and  very  white 
against  the  rain-washed  sky ;  then  groaned, 
and  glared  angrily  into  the  lad's  upturned 
countenance.  "You  talk  of  love,"  he  said, 
hoarsely;  "a  love  compounded  equally  of 
youthful  imagination,  a  liking  for  fantastic 
phrases  and  a  disposition  for  caterwauling 
i'  the  moonlight.  Ah,  lad,  lad! — if  you  but 
knew!  That  is  not  love;  to  love  is  to  go 
mad  like  a  star-struck  moth,  and  afterward 
to  strive  in  vain  to  forget,  and  to  eat  one's 
heart  out  in  the  loneliness,  and  to  hunger — 
hunger —  The  marquis  spread  out  his 
hands  helplessly,  and  then,  with  a  quick, 
impatient  gesture,  swept  back  the  mass  of 
wheat-colored  hair  that  fell  about  his  face. 
"Ah,  Master  Mervale,"  he  sighed,  "I  was 
right  after  all, — it  is  the  cruelest  plague  in 
the  world!" 

"Yet,"  said  Master  Mervale,  with  cour- 
teous interest,  "you  did  not  marry?" 

"Marry!"  His  lordship  snarled  toward 
the  sun  and  laughed  shortly.  "  Look  you, 
Master  Mervale,  I  know  not  how  far  y'are 
acquainted  with  the  business.  It  was  in 
260 


x, 

£ 


rv 


Cornwall  yonder  years  since;  I  was  but  a 
lad,  and  she  a  wench, — O,  such  a  wench, 
with  tender  blue  eyes,  and  a  faint,  sweet 
voice  that  could  deny  me  nothing!  God 
does  not  fashion  her  like  every  day, — Dieu 
qui  la  fist  de  ses  deux  mains,  saith  the 
Frenchman."  The  marquis  paced  the  grass, 
gnawing  his  lip  and  debating  with  him- 
self in  stifled  tones.  "  Marry  ?  Her  family 
was  good,  but  their  deserts  outranked  their 
fortunes;  their  crest  was  not  the  topmost 
feather  in  Fortune's  cap,  you  understand; 
somewhat  sunken  i'  the  world,  Master  Mer- 
vale,  somewhat  sunken.  And  I  ?  My  father 
—God  rest  his  bones!  —  was  a  cold,  hard 
man,  and  my  two  elder  brothers — Holy  Vir- 
gin, pray  for  them ! — loved  me  none  too  well. 
I  was  the  cadet  then:  Heaven  helps  them 
that  help  themselves,  says  my  father,  and  I 
haven't  a  penny  for  you.  My  way  was  yet 
to  make  in  the  world ;  to  saddle  myself  with 
a  dowerless  wench  —  even  a  wench  whose 
voice  set  a  man's  heart  hammering  at  his 
ribs — was  folly,  Master  Mervale.  Utter,  im- 
provident, shiftless,  bedlamite  folly,  lad!" 
17  261 


K 


"  H'm '."Master  Mervale  cleared  his  throat, 
twirled  his  mustachios,  and  smiled  at  some 
unspoken  thought.  "Was  it?"  he  queried, 
after  an  interval  of  meditation. 

"Ah,  lad,  lad!"  the  marquis  cried,  in  a 
sudden  gust  of  anger;  "  I  dare  say,  as  your 
smirking  hints,  it  was  a  coward's  act  not  to 
snap  fingers  at  fate  and  fathers  and  dare 
all!  Well!  I  did  not  dare.  We  parted — in 
what  lamentable  fashion  is  now  of  little  im- 
port— and  I  set  forth  to  seek  my  fortune. 
Ho,  it  was  a  brave  world  then,  Master  Mer- 
vale, for  all  the  tears  that  were  scarce  dried 
on  my  cheeks !  A  world  wherein  the  heavens 
were  as  blue  as  a  certain  woman's  eyes,— 
a  world  wherein  a  likely  lad  might  see  far 
countries,  waggle  a  good  sword  in  Babylon 
and  Tripolis  and  other  ultimate  kingdoms, 
beard  the  Mussulman  in  his  mosque,  and  at 
last  fetch  home  —  though  he  might  never 
love  her,  you  understand — an  Emir's  daugh- 
ter for  his  wife, — 

"  With  more  gay  gold  about  her  middle 
Than  would  buy  half  Northumberlee." 
262 


^ 


His  voice  died  away.  He  sighed  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Eh,  well!"  said 
the  marquis;  "I  fought  in  Flanders  some- 
what— in  Spain — what  matter  where  ?  Then, 
at  last,  sickened  in  Amsterdam  three  years 
ago,  where  a  messenger  comes  to  haul  me 
out  of  bed  as  future  Marquis  of  Falmouth. 
One  brother  slain  in  a  duel,  Master  Mervale ; 
one  killed  in  Wyatt's  Rebellion;  my  father 
dying  of  old  age,  and — Heaven  rest  his  soul ! 
—  not  over -anxious  to  meet  his  Maker. 
There  you  have  it,  Master  Mervale, — a  right 
pleasant  jest  of  Fortune's  perpetration, — 
I  a  marquis,  my  own  master,  fit  mate  for 
any  woman  in  the  kingdom,  and  Kate — my 
Kate — vanished !" 

"Vanished?"  The  lad  echoed  the  word, 
with  wide  eyes. 

"Vanished  in  the  night  five  years  ago, 
and  no  sign  nor  rumor  of  her  since!  Gone 
to  seek  me  abroad,  no  doubt,  poor  wench! 
Dead,  dead,  beyond  question,  Master  Mer- 
vale!" The  marquis  swallowed,  and  rubbed 
his  lips  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  "Ah, 
well!"  said  he;  "it  is  an  old  sorrow!" 
263 


The  male  animal  shaken  by  some  strong 
emotion  is  to  his  brothers  an  embarrassing 
rather  than  a  pathetic  sight.  Master  Mer- 
vale,  lowering  his  eyes  discreetly,  rooted  up 
several  tufts  of  grass  before  he  spoke.  Then, 
"My  lord,  you  have  Joiown  of  love,"  said 
he,  very  slowly ;  "  have  you  no  kindliness  for 
aspiring  lovers  who  have  been  one  of  us? 
My  lord  of  Pevensey,  I  think,  loves  the  Lady 
Ursula,  at  least,  as  much  as  you  ever  loved 
this  Mistress  Katherine;  of  my  own  adora- 
tion I  do  not  speak,  save  to  say  that  I  have 
sworn  never  to  marry  any  other  woman. 
Her  father  favors  you,  for  you  are  a  match 
in  a  thousand ;  but  you  do  not  love  her.  It 
matters  little  to  you,  my  lord,  whom  she 
may  wed ;  to  us  it  signifies  a  life's  happiness. 
Will  not  the  memory  of  that  Cornish  lass 
— the  memory  of  moonlit  nights,  and  of 
those  sweet,  vain  aspirations  and  foiled  day- 
dreams that  in  boyhood  waked  your  blood 
even  to  that  brave  folly  which  now  possesses 
us — will  not  the  memory  of  these  things 
soften  you,  my  lord?" 

But  Lord  Falmouth  was  by  this  time  half 
264 


Jtt    Jlrsula'a 


regretful  of  his  recent  outburst,  and  some- 
what inclined  to  regard  his  companion  as  a 
dangerously  plausible  young  fellow  who 
had  very  unwarrantably  wormed  himself 
into  his  confidence.  His  heavy  jaw  shut 
like  a  trap. 

" By  Saint  Gregory!"  said  he;  "may  I  fry 
in  Hell  a  thousand  years  if  I  do!  What  I 
have  told  you  of  is  past,  Master  Mervale ;  a 
wise  man  does  not  cry  over  spilt  milk." 

"You  are  adamant?"  sighed  the  boy. 

"  The  nether  millstone, "  said  the  marquis, 
smiling  grimly,  "is  in  comparison  but  a 
pillow  of  down." 

"  Yet — yet  the  milk  was  sweet,  my  lord  ?" 
the  boy  suggested,  with  a  faint  answering 
smile. 

"Sweet!"  The  marquis's  voice  shook  in 
a  deep  tremor  of  speech. 

"And  if  the  choice  lay  between  Ursula 
and  Katherine?" 

"O,  fool! — O,  pink  -  cheeked,  utter  igno- 
rant fool!"  the  marquis  groaned.  "Said  I 
not  you  knew  nothing  of  love?" 

"Heigho!"  Master  Mervale  put  aside  all 
265 


^>r 


£in?   of 

glum-faced  discussion,  with  a  little  yawn, 
and  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Then  we  can  but 
hope  that  somewhere,  somehow,  Mistress 
Katherine  yet  lives  and  in  her  own  good 
time  may  reappear.  And  while  we  speak 
of  reappearances — surely  the  Lady  Ursula 
is  strangely  tardy  in  making  hers?" 

The  marquis's  jealousy  when  it  slumbered 
slept  with  an  open  ear.  "  Let  us  join  them," 
he  said,  shortly,  and  started  through  the 
gardens  with  quick,  stiff  strides. 


II 


HEY  went  westward 
toward  the  Summer  pavil- 
ion. Presently  the  marquis 
blundered  into  the  green 
gloom  of  the  maze,  laid  out 
in  the  Italian  fashion,  and 
was  extricated  only  by  the  superior  knowl- 
edge of  Master  Mervale,  who  guided  him 
skilfully  and  surely  through  the  manifold 
intricacies  to  open  daylight. 

Afterward  they  came  to  a  close -shaven 
lawn,  where  the  Summer  pavilion  stood  be- 
side the  brook  that  widened  here  into  an 
artificial  pond,  spread  with  lily-pads  and 
fringed  with  lustreless  rushes.  The  Lady 
Ursula  sat  with  the  Earl  of  Pevensey  be- 
neath a  burgeoning  maple-tree.  Such  rays 
267 


as  sifted  through  into  their  cool  retreat  lay 
like  splotches  of  wine  upon  the  ground,  and 
there  the  taller  grass-blades  turned  to  nee- 
dles of  thin  silver;  one  palpitating  beam, 
more  daring  than  the  rest,  slanted  straight 
toward  the  little  head  of  the  Lady  Ursula, 
converting  her  hair  into  a  veritable  halo  of 
misty  gold  that  appeared  strangely  out  of 
place  in  this  particular  position.  She  seemed 
a  Bassarid  who  had  somehow  fallen  heir  to 
an  aureole;  for  otherwise,  to  phrase  it  se- 
dately, there  was  about  her  no  clamant 
suggestion  of  saintship.  At  least,  there 
is  no  record  of  any  saint  in  the  calendar 
who  ever  looked  with  laughing  gray- green 
eyes  upon  her  lover  and  mocked  at  the 
fervor  and  trepidation  of  his  speech.  This 
the  Lady  Ursula  now  did ;  and,  manifestly, 
enjoyed  the  doing  of  it. 

Within  the  moment  the  Earl  of  Pevensey 
took  up  the  viol  that  lay  beside  them  and 
sang  to  her  in  the  clear  morning.  He  was 
sunbrowned  and  very  comely,  and  his  big, 
black  eyes  were  tender  as  he  sang. 

Sang  the  Earl  of  Pevensey : 
268 


Ju    Ursula's 


''Mistress  mine,  the  Spring  about  us 
Now  doth  mock  at  us  and  flout  us 

That  so  coldly  do  delay: 
When  the  very  birds  are  mating, 
Pr'ythee,  why  should  we  be  waiting — 

We  that  might  be  wed  to-day  ? 

"Life  is  short,  the  wise  men  tell  us; — 
Even  those  dusty,  musty  fellows 

That  have  done  with  life, — alas! 
Do  the  bones  of  Aristotle 
Never  hunger  for  a  bottle, 

Youth  and  some  frank  Grecian  lass  ? 


"Ah,  I  warrant  you;  —  and  Zeno 
Would  not  reason  now,  could  he  know 

One  more  chance  to  live  and  love: 
For,  at  best,  the  merry  May-time 
Is  a  very  fleeting  play-time;  — 

Why,  then,  waste  an  hour  thereof? 


11  Thus,  I  demonstrate  by  reason 
Youth's  for  love,  and  Spring's  the  season 
269 


For  the  garnering  of  our  bliss; 
Wisdom  is  but  long-faced  folly; 
Cry  a  fig  for  melancholy! 

Seal  the  bargain  with  a  kiss." 

When  he  had  ended,  the  Earl  of  Pevensey 
laughed  and  looked  up  into  her  face  with  a 
long,  hungry  gaze;  and  the  Lady  Ursula 
laughed  likewise  and  spoke  kindly  to  him, 
though  the  distance  was  too  great  for  the 
eavesdroppers  to  overhear.  Then,  after  a 
little,  the  Lady  Ursula  bent  forward  out  of 
the  shade  of  the  maple  into  the  sun,  and 
the  sunlight  fell  upon  her  golden  head  and 
glowed  in  the  depths  of  her  hair,  as  she 
kissed  him,  tenderly  and  without  haste,  full 
upon  the  lips. 


Ill 


HE    Marquis   of   Falmouth 
caught     Master     Mervale's 
arm  in  a  grip  that  made 
the  boy  wince.      His  look 
was  murderous,  as  he  turn- 
ed in  the  shadow  of  a  white- 
lilac  bush  and  spoke  carefully  through  sharp 
breaths  that  shook  his  great  body. 

"There  are,"  said  he,  "certain  matters  I 
must  immediately  discuss  with  my  lord  of 
Pevensey.  I  desire  you,  Master  Mervale,  to 
fetch  him  to  the  spot  where  we  parted  last, 
that  we  may  finish  our  debate,  quietly  and 
undisturbed.  Else —  Go,  lad,  and  fetch 
him!" 

For  a  moment  the  boy  faced  the  half-shut 
pale  eyes  that  were  like  coals  smouldering 
271 


behind  a  veil  of  gray  ash.  Then  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  sauntered  forward,  and  doffed 
his  hat  to  the  Lady  Ursula.  There  followed 
much  laughter  among  them,  many  explana- 
tions from  Master  Mervale,  and  yet  more 
laughter  from  the  lady  and  the  earl.  The 
marquis  ground  his  big,  white  teeth  as  he 
listened,  and  wondered  angrily  over  the 
cause  of  their  mirth. 

"  Foh,  the  hyenas!  the  apes,  the  vile  mag- 
pies!" the  marquis  observed.  He  heaved  a 
sigh  of  relief,  as  the  Earl  of  Pevensey  raised 
his  hands  lightly  toward  heaven,  laughed 
once  more,  and  plunged  into  the  thicket. 
Lord  Falmouth  laughed  in  turn,  though  not  Y 
very  pleasantly.  Afterward  he  loosened  his 
sword  in  the  scabbard  and  wheeled  back  to 
seek  their  rendezvous  in  the  shadowed  place 
where  they  had  made  sonnets  to  the  Lady 
Ursula. 

For  some  ten  minutes  the  marquis  strode 
proudly  through  the  maze,  pondering  on 
his  injuries  and  the  more  fatal  tricks  of 
fencing.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was 
lost  in  a  wilderness  of  trim  yew-hedges  that 
272 


3tt   Hrjsuia  B 


confronted  him  stiffly  at  every  outlet  and 
branched  off  in  innumerable  gravelled  al- 
leys that  led  nowhither. 

"Swounds!"  said  the  marquis.  He  re- 
traced his  steps  impatiently.  He  cast  his 
hat  upon  the  ground  in  seething  despera- 
tion. He  turned  in  a  different  direction, 
and  in  five  minutes  trod  upon  his  discarded 
head-gear. 

"  Holy  Gregory !"  the  marquis  commented. 
He  meditated  for  a  moment,  then  caught  up 
his  sword  close  to  his  side  and  plunged  into 
the  nearest  hedge.  After  a  little  he  came 
out,  with  a  scratched  face  and  a  scant  breath, 
into  another  alley.  As  the  crow  flies,  he 
went  through  the  maze  of  Longaville,  leav- 
ing in  his  rear  desolation  and  snapped  yew- 
twigs.  He  came  out  of  the  ruin  behind  the 
white-lilac  bush  where  he  had  stood  and 
heard  the  Earl  of  Pevensey  sing  to  the  Lady 
Ursula  and  had  seen  what  followed. 

The  marquis  wiped  his  brow.  He  looked 
out  over  the  lawn  and  breathed  heavily. 
The  Lady  Ursula  still  sat  beneath  the  maple, 
and  beside  her  was  Master  Mervale,  whose 
273 


arm  girdled  her  waist.  Her  arm  was  about 
his  neck,  and  she  listened  as  he  talked  eager- 
ly and  with  many  gestures.  Then  they  both 
laughed  and  kissed  one  another. 

"O,  defend  me!"  groaned  the  marquis. 
Once  more  he  wiped  his  brow,  with  a  shak- 
ing hand,  as  he  crouched  behind  the  white- 
lilac  bush.  "  Why,  the  woman  is  a  second 
Messalina!"  he  gasped.  "O,  the  trollop! 
the  wanton!  O,  holy  Gregory!  Yet  I  must 
be  quiet  —  quiet  as  a  sucking  lamb,  that  I 
may  strike  as  a  roaring  lion  afterward!  Is 
this  your  innocence,  Mistress  Ursula,  that 
cannot  endure  the  spoken  name  of  a  spade  ? 
O,  splendor  of  God  !" 

Thus  he  raged  behind  the  white-lilac  bush 
while  they  laughed  and  kissed  in  the  sun- 
light. After  a  space  they  parted.  The 
Lady  Ursula,  still  laughing,  lifted  the 
branches  of  the  rearward  thicket  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  path  which  the  Earl  of 
Pevensey  had  taken.  Master  Mervale,  kiss- 
ing his  hand  and  laughing  yet  more  loudly, 
lounged  toward  the  entrance  of  the  maze. 

The  jackanapes  (observed  the  marquis), 
274 


was  in  a  mood  to  be  pleased  with  himself. 
Smiles  eddied  about  his  face,  his  heels 
skipped,  disdaining  the  honest  grass;  and 
presently  he  broke  into  a  glad  little  song, 
all  trills  and  shakes,  like  that  of  a  bird  ecsta- 
sizing over  the  perfections  of  his  mate. 
Sang  Master  Mervale : 

"Listen,  O  lovers!  the  Spring  is  here 

And  the  world  is  not  amiss; 
So  long  as  laughter  is  good  to  hear, 

And  lips  are  good  to  kiss, 
So  long  as  Youth  and  Spring  endure, 
There's  never  an  evil  that's  past  a  cure 
And  the  world  is  never  amiss. 

"  O  lovers  all,  I  bid  ye  declare 

The  world  is  a  pleasant  place;— 
Give  thanks  to  God  for  the  gift  so  fair, 
Give  thanks  for  His  singular  grace! 
Give   thanks  for    Youth   and   Love   and 

Spring! 
Give  thanks,   as  gentlefolk  should,   and 

sing, 

The  world  is  a  pleasant  place!" 
275 


oUtr   £tur   of 

In  mid-skip  he  desisted,  his  voice  trailing 
into  inarticulate  vowels.  After  many  angry 
throes,  a  white-lilac  bush  had  been  de- 
livered of  the  Marquis  of  Falmouth,  who 
now  confronted  him,  furiously  moved. 


h*<fcm 

51 


from   -Haters   ttot 


, 


HAVE  heard,  Master  Mer- 
vale,"  said  the  marquis, 
gently,  "that  love  is 
blind?" 

The  boy  stared  at  the  e 
white  face,  that  had  before 
his  eyes  veiled  rage  with  a  crooked  smile. 
So  you  may  see  the  cat,  tense  for  the  fatal 
spring,  relax  and  with  one  paw  indolently 
flip  the  mouse. 

"  It  is  an  ancient  fable,  my  lord,"  he  said, 
smiling,  and  made  as  though  to  pass. 

"Indeed,"  said  the  marquis,  courteously, 
but  without  yielding  an  inch,  "  it  is  a  very 
reassuring  one;  for,"  he  continued,  medita- 
tively, "were  the  eyes  of  all  lovers  suddenly 
is  277 


opened,  Master  Mervale,  I  suspect  it  would 
prove  a  red  hour  for  the  world.  There 
would  be  both  tempers  and  reputations  lost, 
Master  Mervale;  there  would  be  sword- 
thrusts;  there  would  be  corpses,  Master 
Mervale." 

"Doubtless,  my  lord,"  the  lad  assented, 
striving  to  jest  and  have  done;  "for  the 
flesh  is  frail,  and  as  the  flesh  of  woman  is 
frailer  than  that  of  man,  so  is  it  the  more 
easily  entrapped  by  the  gross  snares  of  the 
devil, — as  was  over- well  proven  by  the  ser- 
pent's betrayal  of  Eve  at  the  beginning." 

"Yet,  Master  Mervale,"  pursued  the  mar- 
quis, equably,  but  without  smiling,  "  there 
be  lovers  in  the  world  that  have  eyes?" 

"Doubtless,  my  lord,"  said  the  boy. 

"There  also  be  women  in  the  world, 
Master  Mervale,"  Lord  Falmouth  suggested, 
with  a  deeper  gravity,  "that  are  but  the 
handsome  sepulchres  of  iniquity, — ay,  and 
for  the  major  part  of  women,  those  miracles 
that  are  their  bodies,  compact  of  white  and 
gold  and  sprightly  color  though  they  be, 
are  but  the  lovely  cerements  of  corruption." 
278 


"  Doubtless,  my  lord.  The  devil  is  home- 
lier with  that  sex." 

"There  also  be  swords  in  the  world,  Mas- 
ter Mervale?"  purred  the  marquis.  He 
touched  his  own  as  he  spoke. 

"My  lord — !"  cried  the  boy,  with  a 
gasp. 

"Now,  swords  have  many  uses,  Master 
Mervale,"  my  lord  of  Falmouth  continued, 
half  idly.  "  With  a  sword  one  may  pick  a 
cork  from  a  bottle;  with  a  sword  one  may 
toast  cheese  about  the  Twelfth  Night  fire; 
with  a  sword  one  may  spit  a  man,  Master 
Mervale, — ay,  even  an  ambling,  pink- faced,  „ 
lisping  lad  that  cannot  boo  at  a  goose,  Mas- 
ter Mervale.  I  have  no  inclination  just  now 
for  either  wine  or  toasted  cheese,  Master 
Mervale." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  my  lord,"  said 
the  boy,  in  a  thin,  trembling  voice. 

"  Indeed,  I  think  we  understand  one  an- 
other perfectly,"  said  the  marquis.  "  For  I 
have  been  very  frank  with  you,  and  I  have 
watched  you  from  behind  this  bush  for  a 
half-hour." 


ffittt* 


The  boy  raised  his  hand  as  though  to  speak. 

"Look  you,  Master  Mervale,"  the  Mar- 
quis argued,  "  you  and  my  lord  of  Pevensey 
and  I  be  brave  fellows ;  we  need  a  wide  world 
to  bustle  in.  Now,  the  thought  has  come 
to  me  that  this  narrow  continent  of  ours  is 
scarcely  commodious  enough  for  all  three. 
There  be  Purgatory  and  Heaven,  and  yet 
another  place,  Master  Mervale;  why,  then, 
crowd  one  another?" 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  boy,  dully,  "  I  do  not 
understand  you." 

"Holy  Gregory!"  scoffed  the  marquis; 
"surely  my  meaning  is  plain  enough!  it  is 
to  kill  you  first,  and  my  lord  of  Pevensey 
afterward!  Y'are  phoenixes,  Master  Mer- 
vale, Arabian  birds!  Y'are  too  good  for 
this  world.  Longaville  is  not  fit  to  be  trod- 
den under  your  feet ;  and  therefore  it  is  my 
intention  that  you  leave  Longaville  feet 
first.  Draw,  Master  Mervale!"  cried  the 
marquis,  his  light  hair  falling  about  his 
flushed,  handsome  face  as  he  laughed  joy- 
ously and  flashed  his  sword  in  the  Spring 
sunshine. 

280 


f  tt 

The  boy  sprang  back,  with  an  inarticu- 
late cry ;  then  gulped  some  dignity  into  him- 
self and  spoke.  "My  lord,"  he  said,  "I  ad- 
mit that  explanation  may  seem  necessary." 

"You  may  render  it  to  my  heir,  Master 
Mervale,  who  will  doubtless  accord  it  such 
credence  as  it  merits.  For  my  part,  having 
two  duels  on  my  hands  to-day,  I  have  no 
time  to  listen  to  a  romance  out  of  the  Hun- 
dred Merry  Tales." 

He  placed  himself  on  guard;  but  Master 
Mervale  stood  with  chattering  teeth  and 
irresolute,  groping  hands,  and  made  no  ef- 
fort, to  draw.  "O,  the  block!  the  curd- 
faced  cheat!"  cried  the  marquis.  "Will 
nothing  move  you?"  With  his  left  hand  he 
struck  at  the  boy. 

Thereupon  Master  Mervale  gasped,  and 
turning  with  a  great  sob,  ran  through  the 
gardens.  The  marquis  laughed  discordant- 
ly ;  then  he  followed  him,  taking  big  leaps  as 
he  ran  and  flourishing  his  sword. 

"O,  the  coward!"  he  shouted;  "O,  the 
milk-livered  rogue!  O,  you  paltry  rabbit!" 

So  they  came  to  the  bank  of  the  artificial 
281 


II 


Eutf   of 


pond.  Master  Mervale  swerved  as  with  a 
grim  oath  the  marquis  pounced  upon  him. 
Master  Mervale 's  foot  caught  in  the  root  of  a 
great  willow,  and  Master  Mervale  splashed 
into  ten  feet  of  still  water,  that  splurged  like 
quicksilver  in  the  sunlight: 

"O,  Saint  Gregory!"  the  marquis  cried, 
and  clasped  his  sides  in  noisy  mirth;  "was 
there  no  other  way  to  cool  your  courage? 
Paddle  out  and  be  flogged,  Master  Hare- 
heels!"  he  called.  The  boy  had  come  to 
the  surface  and  was  swimming  aimlessly, 
parallel  to  the  bank.  "  Now  I  have  heard," 
said  the  marquis,  as  he  walked  beside  him, 
"that  water  swells  a  man.  Pray  Heaven, 
it  may  swell  his  heart  a  thousandfold  or  so, 
and  thus  hearten  him  for  wholesome  exer- 
cise after  his  ducking — a  friendly  thrust  or 
two,  a  little  judicious  blood-letting  to  ward 
off  the  effects  of  the  damp." 

The  marquis  started  as  Master  Mervale 
grounded  on  a  shallow  and  rose,  dripping, 
knee-deep  among  the  lily-pads.  "  O,  splen- 
dor of  God!"  cried  the  marquis,  in  a  shaking 
voice. 

282 


JT»K  ' 

$5* 


(garirtt 


Master  Mervale  had  risen  from  his  bath 
almost  clean-shaven  ;  only  one  sodden  half 
of  his  mustachios  clung  to  his  tipper  lip, 
and  as  he  rubbed  the  water  from  his  eyes, 
even  this  fell  upon  a  broken  lily-pad. 

"O,  splendor  .of  God!"  groaned  the  mar- 
quis. He  splashed  noisily  into  the  pond. 
"O  Kate,  Kate!"  he  cried,  his  arms  about 
Master  Mervale.  "O,  blind,  blind,  blind! 
O  heart's  dearest!  O,  my  dear,  my  dear!" 
he  sobbed. 

Master  Mervale  slipped  from  his  embrace 
and  waded  to  dry  land.  "My  lord,  —  "  he 
began,  demurely. 

"My  lady  wife,—  '  said  his  lordship  of 
Falmouth,  with  a  glad,  tremulous  smile. 
He  paused  suddenly  and  passed  his  hand 
over  his  brow.  "And  yet  I  do  not  under- 
stand," he  said.  "  Y'are  dead  ;  y'are  buried. 
It  was  a  frightened  boy  I  struck."  He 
spread  out  his  arms,  in  a  quick  mad  gesture. 
"O  world!  O  sun!  O  stars!"  he  cried;  "she 
is  come  back  to  me  from  the  grave.  O  little 
world!  little  world!  I  think  that  I  could 
crush  you  in  my  hands!" 
283 


Sttt?   nf 


•Wyfl 


IfiJ 


"Meanwhile,"  Master  Mervale  suggested, 
after  an  interval,  "  it  is  I  that  you  are  crush- 
ing." He  sighed, — though  not  very  deeply, 
— and  continued,  with  a  slight  hiatus: 
"They  would  have  wedded  me  to  Lucius 
Rossmore,  and  I  could  not — I  could  not — " 

"That  skinflint!  that  palsied  goat!"  the 
marquis  growled. 

"He  was  wealthy,"  said  Master  Mervale. 
Then  he  sighed  once  more.  "  There  seemed 
only  you, — only  you  in  all  the  world.  A  man 
might  come  to  you  in  those  far-off  countries : 
a  woman  might  not.  I  fled  by  night,  my 
lord,  by  the  aid  of  a  waiting- woman ;  be- 
came a  man  by  the  aid  of  a  tailor;  and  set 
out  to  find  you  by  the  aid  of  such  impu- 
dence as  I  might  muster.  But  I  could  not. 
I  followed  you  through  Flanders,  Italy, 
Spain, — always  just  too  late;  always  finding 
the  bird  flown,  the  nest  yet  warm.  Pres- 
ently I  heard  you  were  become  Marquis  of 
Falmouth;  then  I  gave  up  the  quest,  my 
lord." 

"I   would   suggest,"    said   the   marquis, 
"  that  my  name  is  Stephen ; — but  why  ?" 
284 


Jtt    Ursula's 


"Stephen  Allonby,  my  lord,"  said  Master 
Mervale,  sadly,  "was  not  Marquis  of  Fal- 
mouth;  as  Marquis  of  Falmouth,  you  might 
look  to  mate  with  any  woman  short  of  the 
Queen." 

"To  tell  you  a  secret,"  the  marquis  whis- 
pered, "  I  look  to  mate  with  one  beside  whom 
the  Queen  —  not  to  speak  treason  —  is  but  a 
lean  -faced,  yellow  piece  of  affectation.  I 
aim  higher  than  royalty,  heart's  dearest,  — 
to  her  by  whom  empresses  are  but  common 
trulls." 

"And  Ursula?"  asked  Master  Mervale, 
gently. 

"  Holy  Gregory!"  cried  the  marquis,  with 
a  gasp,  —  "  I  had  forgot!  Poor  wench,  poor 
wench!  I  must  withdraw  my  suit  warily, 
—  warily,  yet  kindly,  you  understand.  Poor 
wench!  —  well,  after  all,"  he  hopefully  sug- 
gested, "there  is  yet  Pevensey." 

"O  Stephen!  Stephen!"   Master  Mervale 


murmured,   and   then  began  to   laugh  as 


though  he  would  not  speedily  have  done; 
"  why,  there  was  never  any  other  but  Peven-  ••. 
sey!     For  Ursula  knows  all, — knows  there 
285 

E 


was  never  so  much  manhood  in  Master 
Mervale 's  disposition  as  might  not  be  picked 
up  on  the  point  of  a  pin !  Why,  she  is  my 
cousin,  Stephen, — my  cousin  and  good 
friend,  to  whom  I  came  at  once  on  reaching 
England,  to  find  you,  favored  by  her  father, 
pestering  her  with  your  suit,  and  the  poor 
girl  wellnigh  at  her  wits'  end  because  she 
might  not  have  Pevensey.  So,"  said  Mas- 
ter Mervale,  "we  put  our  heads  together, 
Stephen,  as  you  observe." 

"Indeed,"  my  lord  of  Falmouth  said, 
slowly,  "it  would  seem  that  you  two 
wenches  have,  between  you,  concocted  a 
very  pleasant  comedy." 

"  It  was  not  all  a  comedy,"  sighed  Master 
Mervale — "not  all  a  comedy,  Stephen,  until 
to-day  when  you  told  Master  Mervale  the 
story  of  Katherine  Beaufort.  For  I  did  not 
know — I  could  not  know — " 

"  And  now  ?"  my  lord  of  Falmouth  queried. 

"  H'm!"  cried  Master  Mervale,  and  tossed 
his  head.  "You  are  very  unreasonable  in 
anger!  you  are  a  veritable  Turk!  you  struck 
me!" 

286 


The  marquis  rose,  bowing  low  to  his 
former  adversary.  "Master  Mervale,"  said 
he,  "I  hereby  tender  you  my  unreserved 
apologies  for  the  affront  I  have  put  upon 
you.  I  protest  I  was  vastly  mistaken  in 
your  disposition  and  hold  you  as  valorous  a 
gentleman  as  was  ever  made  by  a  tailor's  art ; 
and  you  are  at  liberty  to  bestow  as  many 
kisses  and  caresses  upon  the  Lady  Ursula  as 
you  may  elect,  reserving,  however,  a  reason- 
able sufficiency  for  one  that  shall  be  name-  /(|') 
less.  Are  we  friends,  Master  Mervale?" 

Master  Mervale  rested  his  head  upon  Lord 
Falmouth's  shoulder,  and  sighed  happily. 
Master  Mervale  laughed, — a  low,  gentle 
laugh  that  was  vibrant  with  content. 

"  No ; — not  exactly  friends,  Stephen,"  said 
Master  Mervale. 


ND  here  let  us  leave  the  re- 
united lovers.  There  was  a 
double  wedding  some  two 
weeks  later  in  the  chapel 
at  Longaville;  and  from 
either  marriage  sprang 
brave  gentlemen  and  gracious  ladies  who  in 
due  course  achieved  their  allotted  portion 
of  laughter  and  anguish  and  love,  as  their 
fathers  had  done  aforetime.  But  for  the 
while  at  least,  let  us  put  aside  these  chron- 
icles. My  pen  flags,  my  ink  runs  low,  and 
the  book  is  made. 

I  have  bound  up  my  gleanings  from  the 
fields  of  old  years  into  a  modest  sheaf ;  and  if 
it  be  so  fortunate  as  to  please  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Grundy, — if  it  so  come  about  that  your 
ladyship  be  moved  in  time  to  desire  another 
288 


m 

<y  &**~~* 


sheaf  such  as  this,  —  why,  assuredly,  my 
surprise  will  be  untempered  with  obduracy. 
The  legends  of  Allonby  have  been  but  light- 
ly touched  upon ;  and  apart  from  the  Aven- 
tures  d'Adhelmar,  Nicolas  de  Caen  as  yet 
lacks  an  English  editor  for  his  Roman  de 
Lusignan  and  his  curious  Dizain  des  Reines, 
—those  not  unhandsome  pieces,  latterly 
included  and  annotated  in  the  Bibliotheca 
Abscondita. 

But  you,  madam,  are  not  Schahriah  to 
give  respite  for  the  sake  of  an  unnarrated 
tale.  So  without  further  peroration  I  make 
an  end.  Through  the  monstrous  tapestry  I 
have  traced  out  for  you  the  windings  of  a 
single  thread,  and  I  entreat  you,  dear  lady, 
to  accept  it  with  assurances  of  my  most  dis- 
tinguished regard. 

The  gift  is  not  a  great  one.  But  this  lack 
of  greatness,  believe  me,  is  due  to  the  errors 
and  limitations  of  the  transcriber  alone. 

For  they  loved  very  greatly,  these  men 

and  women  of  the  past.     Nature  tricked 

them  to  noble  ends,  lured  them  to  skyey 

heights  of  adoration  and  sacrifice.     At  bot- 

289 


torn  they  were,  perhaps,  no  more  heroical 
than  you  or  I:  indeed,  M  elite  was  a  light 
woman,  and  Falstaff  is  scarcely  describable 
as  immaculate;  Villon  thieved,  and  Will 
Sommers  was  but  a  fool;  Matthiette  was 
vain,  and  Adelais  self-seeking,  and  the  tenth 
Marquis  of  Falmouth,  if  you  press  me,  rather 
a  stupid  and  pompous  ass:  and  yet  to  each 
in  turn  it  was  granted  to  love  greatly,  to 
know  at  least  one  hour  of  pure  magnanimity. 
Ah,  yes,  this  love  is  an  illusion,  if  you  will. 
Wise  men  have  protested  that  vehemently 
enough  in  all  conscience.  But  there  are  two 
ends  to  every  stick.  You  may  see  in  love 
the  man's  spark  of  divinity  flaring  in  mo- 
mentary splendor  —  a  tragic  candle,  with 
divinity  guttering  and  half-choked  among 
the  drossier  particles — and  with  momentary 
splendor  lighting  man's  similitude  to  Him 
in  Whose  likeness  man  was  created.  Or  you 
may  see  in  love  only  Nature  in  the  Prince  of 
Lycia's  role,  and  mankind  by  her  allured 
and  hoodwinked  and  bullied  and  cajoled  into 
perpetuation  of  itself.  But  in  either  event 
you  have  conceded  that  life  void  of  love  is 
290 


at  best  a  shuffling  and  poltroonish  business, 
a  genteel  waiving,  in  effect,  of  any  especial 
reason  for  your  own  existence ;  and  in  either 
event  you  have  granted  it  the  most  impor- 
tant and  requisite  thing  that  life  affords. 

And  beyond  that  is  silence.  If  you  suc- 
ceed in  proving  love  a  species  of  madness, 
you  have  merely  demonstrated  that  there 
is  something  more  pivotal  than  sanity,  and 
for  the  sanest  logician  this  is  a  disastrous 
gambit:  and  if,  in  wellnigh  obsolete  fashion, 
you  confess  the  universe  to  be  a  weightier 
matter  than  the  contents  of  your  skull,  and 
your  wits  a  somewhat  slender  instrument 
wherewith  to  plumb  infinity — why,  then, 
you  will  recall  that  it  is  written  God  is  love, 
and  this  recollection,  too,  is  conducive  to  a 
fine  taciturnity. 


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